Dust in the Air
by Flaignhan
Summary: This is them. [Part of the Schoolgirl Crush series]
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** I have been quietly chugging away on this for the past two and a half weeks. Although if you want to check out my mental state while writing this, then do feel free to head over to Tumblr, where I am also Flaignhan. The fic is finished, so there will be daily updates. My beta reader is the glorious Livealoner (also on Tumblr, go follow her because she's great, though I'm not biased by the fact that she's part of my fam). This is the final instalment of the Schoolgirl Crush series, so it might be worth reading the other stuff first if you haven't already. That's about it! Hope you enjoy.

* * *

 **Dust in the Air**

 **by Flaignhan**

* * *

Everything is brilliant.

He's embracing his new role with cautious enthusiasm.

It's not something she ever thought she'd see.

She's thrilled to bits; she's a _godmother_ , and a huge grin spreads its way across her face every time her brain gives her a gentle nudge to remind her of the fact. Rosie is utterly perfect of course, not that Molly's biased, not one little bit.

Her favourite part is seeing the effect of this tiny little miracle on Sherlock. Whenever that pudgy little hand closes around his index finger, every trace of cynicism and arrogance he has ever possessed dissolves in a heartbeat. Of course it returns as soon as she's out of sight, but he is not immune to Rosie's charm.

Far from it.

He'll be a fantastic godfather, Molly's certain.

Nonetheless, he's still a bit unsure of the baby. He won't babysit unless someone else is there, because "What the hell do I do if she starts crying?" and he won't pick her up, but he will take her if someone passes her to him. After all, who is he to invade her personal space?

He's getting there though, and it's only a couple of months before Rosie starts to remember his face, reaching out her little hands for him when he comes to say hello.

He's babysitting this evening, and Molly is there to supervise, while John and Mary go out for dinner for the first time since becoming parents. It's only a few hours, and Molly's stretched out across the sofa, reading a magazine, while Rosie sleeps soundly in her cot.

Sherlock is pacing around in his socks, veering around squeaky floorboards, and when he raises his phone to shoot off a rapid text, the speaker issues a series of clicking sounds as his thumbs batter the keyboard. He flicks his phone to silent quickly, then turns his head to check if he's disturbed Rosie, but no. She is still fast asleep.

"You okay?" Molly asks in a hushed voice. She turns the page of her magazine, sees a nonsense story about broccoli causing cancer, and flips to the next article, written by someone with at least a couple of braincells to rub together.

"Yeah," he says, and he returns to his text, thumbs tapping rapidly against the screen, but now without a single noise. Once he's finished his flurry, he slips his phone back into the pocket of his trousers, and pads over to the other end of the sofa. Molly lifts her legs momentarily so he can collapse down into the cushions, then resettles herself, her ankles crossed and resting against the tops of his thighs.

He's restless, and he keeps fidgeting while Molly tries to concentrate on her magazine. She holds out, wondering if it's just him trying to get used to being quiet in his own flat.

He's never had to be considerate here before.

"Is this it?" he asks, waving a hand towards Rosie's travel cot. "Is this all it is?"

Molly puts down her magazine and glances over to the cot, then back to Sherlock. "What d'you mean?"

"Well," he says. "She just sleeps all the time. It's not nearly as exhausting as they make it out to be."

"Maybe don't say that in front of John and Mary," Molly replies, and she reaches down to the floor to get her magazine again.

"Yeah well she doesn't exactly cry a lot, does she?" Sherlock argues. "Not as much as they say she does."

"Don't jinx it," Molly tells him. "If she starts crying then it's up to you to deal with it."

Sherlock huffs. " _Jinx it_?" He rolls his eyes. "Don't bring your silly superstitions into _my_ flat, thank you."

Molly allows her magazine to flop down into her lap, her brow creased as she processes his hypocrisy. "Says the man who won't walk under a road sign."

"That's obsessive compulsive behaviour, _not_ superstition."

It's actually a compulsion driven by superstition, hangovers from schooldays. She has them as well, little habits driven home by the masses that just manage to stick.

She's sure every generation has them. And if they don't, then they haven't lived.

Even the great Sherlock Holmes isn't immune.

She won't argue with him though. It's not worth the nitpicking, and quite frankly, she's far more interested in the cringeworthy letters page, filled with embarrassing stories. She's caught a glimpse of something about a spider bite on a tropical holiday that she's certain will be utterly disgusting and worth the price of the magazine alone.

"I've got some eyeballs in the fridge." He turns to look at her, his hand resting on her shin, fingers tapping absentmindedly against her jeans.

"No thanks," she says, her face hidden behind the magazine, a hint of a smile tugging at her lips. "I'm not hungry."

He lets out an over the top sigh and leans his head back against the sofa, staring up towards the ceiling.

Apparently he's flat out ignoring that particular joke, which is a shame. She was rather pleased with it.

He stretches out his legs, but his toe catches the foot of the travel cot, shunting it a few inches across the floorboards.

Molly lowers her magazine, just in time to see Sherlock's horrified face as Rosie begins to cry.

"That was good," Molly says with a hint of sarcasm, lifting up her legs so Sherlock can get up.

"It was an accident," he says, moving over to the cot. He looks down into it, dumbstruck,

"She won't bite, you know," Molly tells him. "She hasn't got any teeth."

He gives her a look, then reaches down into the cot to pick Rosie up. He holds her with both hands, directly in front of him, and looks at her as though she's an alien. Then, he turns to Molly, and she gives him a look.

Slowly, he sinks back onto the sofa, then holds Rosie against his chest, her little body wriggling about in her babygrow.

"I do apologise," Sherlock murmurs. "It was not my intention to upset you."

It's sort of sweet, in its own way. Molly leaves him to it, and it's only a short while before Rosie settles down again, her head nestled against Sherlock's neck, her fingers curled around the inside edge of the button strip on his shirt.

Molly gets up, with as little disturbance as possible, and takes Rosie's blanket from the cot, then passes it to Sherlock so he can place it over the both of them.

Molly resumes her magazine, flicking onwards to the horoscopes, which she knows are a bunch of nonsense, but still enjoys reading regardless. Aries is right near the top of the list, and when she reads it, she frowns.

 _You could strike it lucky the second time around when Mercury reconnects with a degree the planet held around the first of the month. Do you ever get the feeling that you've had a conversation so many times you could speak each other's lines? Settle differences. Put them behind you._

The planetary index is, apparently, 2/5. Whatever that means.

"What's the matter?" Sherlock asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Horoscope," Molly tells him. "Bit odd."

He bestows a withering look upon her, and she feels better. She knows that they're written so broadly that anyone can find anything within their lives to which they can apply it, but all the same. It's odd.

"D'you want to hear yours?" she asks.

"Not really," he replies, but she ignores him, and goes ahead anyway, scanning her eyes down the page until she reaches Capricorn, right near the bottom.

" _Today you should feel especially optimistic and enthusiastic, Capricorn, although you may not know why. Later in the week some good news could come your way. This should tell you that you were intuitively picking up on something wonderful. As a matter of fact, your intuition should be high for most of the week. Make it work for you._ " Molly lowers the magazine to see his reaction, which is, predictably, one of annoyance and disgust.

"I told you it was all nonsense."

"You mean you haven't been intuitively picking up on something wonderful?" she teases.

His mouth twitches at the corner, and she's not sure whether it's because of her words, or because there genuinely is something wonderful he's been picking up on.

Although he could be thinking of the looming threat of Moriarty.

It's the sort of thing that would make him smile.

Molly stretches her legs across him again, content in the knowledge that he won't be going anywhere for a little while. She wonders if physical contact with two people at once is a record for him. Even if one of the people is his infant goddaughter, it still counts.

By the time John and Mary arrive to collect Rosie, Molly is down to the dregs of her magazine, reading about budget holidays and meal prep recipes.

She should have brought something a little more substantial to read, but she'll know for next time.

Sherlock is fast asleep, snoring softly, with Rosie contentedly snoozing against his chest.

"How was it?" Mary asks in a hushed voice, while John whips his phone out of his pocket to take a picture.

"A few tantrums," Molly replies, "But Rosie was good as gold."

Mary smirks, and once John is pleased with the shot, she steps over towards Sherlock, reaching out for Rosie and gently extracting her from Sherlock's arms. He wakes up, puzzled at first, but when he sees Mary he relaxes again.

"All right Sleeping Beauty?" Mary asks, glancing over to Sherlock before placing Rosie in her car seat. Sherlock raises a lazy hand in greeting, but doesn't say anything, his brain still hovering in sleep mode. He exhales softly, resting his cheek against his fist again, and he's gone within seconds, a faint snore catching at the back of his throat.

"Did he really find it _that_ exhausting?" John asks, folding up the travel cot.

"I think his body's just not used to being still for that long," Molly replies. "It's taking advantage of the lull."

She would get up to say goodbye, but Sherlock has one hand wrapped around her ankle, and if he's this tired, she doesn't really have the heart to wake him. He's been working on triple speed since the dust settled, and it's all finally catching up with him.

"We'll see you on Sunday," Mary whispers, picking up the car seat, Rosie tucked comfortably inside. "Thanks for looking after...well," she pauses, a smile spreading across her lips. "Both of them."

Molly grins. "Any time," she says.

"Yeah, thanks Molly," John says, voice low. "I'll text this to you later." He waggles his phone, indicating the photo of Sherlock and Rosie.

The Watsons leave the lounge, and slowly descend the stairs. A few moments later, the front door quietly opens and closes, but Sherlock, still fast asleep, does not stir.

As his elbow slides down the arm of the sofa, his head tilts at a sharper and sharper angle. When it gets to the point where Molly can't look at it without creasing her face in discomfort, she decides enough is enough, and reclaims her legs. He opens his eyes, looking around blearily, and Molly stands up, holding both hands out to him.

He takes them, and Molly pulls him to his feet, steadying him when he looks as though he might topple forward.

"Bed," she says, and she puts her hands on his shoulders and guides him to his bedroom. He goes without argument, and once they get to his bedroom, starts fumbling with his shirt buttons. Once he's mastered the shirt, he tosses it into the laundry basket, then turns around, his hand finding Molly's shoulder in the dark so he can use her for balance while he pulls his socks off of his feet.

"When did you last sleep?" Molly asks, concern rising up in her as he stumbles about.

"Oh," he says vaguely. "Last...something." He unhooks the fastening on his trousers and unzips his fly, and allows them to fall, pooling at his feet. He lifts his legs up and down until his feet are finally free, and then he slips under the covers, inhaling deeply as he settles down.

"Are you staying?" he mumbles, his voice obscured by the duvet.

"No," Molly replies. "I've got work in the morning."

He hums in acknowledgement, then reaches out to the pillow next to him, grasping around for something. Molly heads back into the lounge and spies his phone, abandoned on the sofa cushions. She picks it up and heads back to the bedroom, slipping it into his hand.

"Goodnight," she says. "Don't forget Sunday."

"Sunday," he repeats. "Sunday."


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** Thank you to everyone who has reviewed so far - you are all angels, and your reviews and messages makes these past few weeks of crazy writing bingeing totally worth it.

* * *

 **Dust in the Air**

 **by Flaignhan**

* * *

He lets himself in at nine o'clock, and she's only just gotten out of the shower. She pulls her dressing gown on over her towel and opens her bedroom door, just enough to squeeze her head through the gap.

He's sitting on the sofa, scowling at the open cardboard boxes which are slowly but surely being filled with her possessions. He returns his gaze to his phone, tapping away at the keyboard with his thumbs.

"I'm just getting ready," she says, "I'll be out in a bit."

"Yeah, fine," he says, not looking up. She rolls her eyes and ducks back into her bedroom. She wraps her hair up in a fresh towel, and starts the long job of making herself feel suitable for the big day.

Her dress is on a hanger, hooked over the door of her wardrobe, and once she's dried her hair (no mean feat) she slips it on, the skirt puffing around her as she sits down at her dressing table to sort out her makeup and her hair.

He must be wholly occupied with whatever his phone has managed to give him, because it's a quarter past ten when she has finally wrestled her hair into a style she likes, and managed to get her eyeliner even on both sides. She slips on her shoes, which give her an extra couple of inches, then grabs her cardigan and heads for the door.

He's definitely been abusing his phone, because he's now sitting on the floor, tethered to the plug socket by his phone charger. He glances up at her, still determinedly texting, the rapid clicks of his keyboard merging into one long grinding sound.

"You look nice," he mutters, distracted by his phone. She doesn't have time to enjoy the compliment. "What's the occasion?"

"Rosie's christening," she says, a smile of disbelief on her face. "What did you think it was?"

"Couldn't remember," he says with a shrug. "You said Sunday though, and it is, I double checked."

That would explain why he'd showed up an hour early. She'll have to switch his calendar notifications back on again. He's got responsibilities now. Although she's not sure how she'll manage to get her hands on his phone when he has it in his hands constantly these days.

She might be fighting a losing battle.

"Are you serious about this?" he flicks the open flap of one of the cardboard boxes, his eyes never leaving his screen.

"It's happening," she says, and she walks over to him, holding out a hand to haul him up. He takes it, and she braces her heels against the floorboards, and pulls him to his feet. He disconnects the charger cable, dropping it to the floor with a clatter.

Molly doesn't care. It's not her floor for much longer.

They leave the flat and head towards the lift. She won't miss this - the fourteenth floor is way beyond reasonable stair usage, and the wait for the grinding old lift is intolerably long.

When it finally arrives, and the doors slide open, they step inside, and Molly's nose twitches.

" _Now_ do you see why I'm moving?" she asks.

"There's nothing _wrong_ with your flat," he argues, and he lets out a sigh as they start to descend and his signal drops out altogether.

"Can you _smell_ that?" she asks incredulously. "I don't want to live in a building like _that_."

"It's just a cat," he says dismissively. "It's not like you've got a rogue human doing that to the lift."

"Either way, it's more urine than I should have to encounter," she argues. "My new place is on the ground floor, and there's no lift for anyone to wee in, cats or otherwise."

Sherlock shrugs. He's still not sold on the idea.

"You've not even _seen it_ ," she sighs, exasperation getting the better of her. She'd invited him to the last viewing, so he could take a look, get used to the idea, maybe even get a bit excited about the fact that there's an actual garden.

There's even a shed. He might like a shed.

But no, he'd refused.

She doesn't even know why he likes her old place so much. It was the best she could get at the time, and she's looked after it, but she's _so_ excited for her new flat. It's the sort of flat she's dreamed of for years, one that makes all of her long hours at the hospital completely and utterly worth it.

"I _have_ seen it," he says through gritted teeth. He flicks airplane mode on and off on his phone, searching for a signal, but there's still no luck. There won't be any hint of a signal until they reach the forecourt, as he well knows, but it doesn't stop him trying.

"Oh yeah?" Molly asks sceptically. " _Where_ did you see it?"

"I found it on Rightmove," he mutters, and the lift comes to a jerky stop, the doors rolling open. He's out into the hallway before she can blink, and Molly follows on as quickly as she can in her heels.

By the time she catches up with him, he's out on the pavement and has hailed a cab, although it quickly becomes apparent that he has no idea where they're going. Molly tells the driver the address and they set off, chugging along through the Sunday traffic at a steady pace.

They arrive at the church in plenty of time, and Sherlock takes a brief break from his phone to pull some cash from his wallet and pass it through the slot in the perspex screen. He opens the door of the cab and steps out, then holds the door for Molly with the top of his arm while he continues to text, and offers his left hand to her.

She takes it, and glances sideways at the phone before she gets out of the path of the door, and Sherlock swings it shut.

"Christening," he mutters as they step across the gravel towards the gathering throng. "Is this the one where they dunk it?"

"No," Molly hisses. "And for God's sake, put your phone away."

"If he were _really_ that bothered, or _real_ , for that matter, I'm sure I'd have been struck by lightning by now."

She wants to laugh, but that would only encourage him, and so she quickens her pace, so she can say hello to John, Mary, and Mrs Hudson. She manages to coo over Rosie for a good few seconds, before the shadow of him (and his _bloody phone_ ) falls over them. John gives him a stern look (which goes unnoticed) but Mary doesn't appear to mind.

Maybe she hadn't expected anything else.

"You look really well," Molly tells her, and she _does_. She's positively glowing, smile beaming on her face as she holds Rosie in her arms. No one would guess that she was up several times a night with a newborn.

"Thanks," Mary says. "Love your dress. At least someone's made an effort." She glances across to Sherlock, who is dressed, as he is every single day, in plain trousers and jacket with a plain shirt.

"I _have_ made an effort," he argues, apparently sensing the barb was meant for him. "I got Mrs Hudson to iron my shirt this morning."

Before Mrs Hudson can make any exclamations, the church doors groan open, and everybody files inside, out of the sunshine, for the service.

* * *

"That was _embarrassing_ ," Molly says through gritted teeth as they descend the steps, back onto the gravel yard in front of the church.

"It was _your fault_ ," he retorts. "If you hadn't _elbowed me_."

"You completely missed your line! One line! That's all you had!"

"Well it's all a bit of a nonsense anyway, isn't it?" he says with a shrug. He's clutching his phone in his hand, at his side, and Molly knows he's itching to unlock it and continue his one way journey to a repetitive strain injury, but he must sense he needs to give it at least five minutes before he so much as glances at it.

"It's not nonsense to _them_ ," Molly argues. "Not to _John_."

He doesn't have a comeback for that, and so he skulks around for a bit, while people make small talk and chat about it being such a lovely service. He receives a few side eyed looks of disapproval, but then Greg wanders over to him and offers him a nicotine patch.

He accepts.

Molly is dragged into photographs with John, Mary, Rosie, and Mrs Hudson, and then there are a couple of shots with just her and Mrs Hudson and the baby. John heads over to the tree on the far side of the yard, in whose shadow Sherlock is standing, then hauls him back over to join in the pictures.

Molly's face is aching from holding her smile for so long. Even though Rosie is gorgeous, and she's thrilled to be a godmother, and it's a beautiful day, this much smiling is _entirely_ exhausting.

There are photos with the three godparents and Rosie, and then one with Sherlock and family Watson, before Mary finally passes Rosie back to Molly once more, and instructs the photographer to get one of her and Sherlock.

"Make sure you _smile_ , Sherlock," Mary teases. She grins as Sherlock puts an arm around Molly, shoulders back as he poses for the photo.

"I think I'm definitely ready for cake and booze now," Molly mutters, and she plasters on another smile. A brief tremor ripples through Sherlock, and she knows she's caught him right on his funny bone. He sniggers, just as the photographer clicks his shutter. He takes a few more photos, and then, at last, they are released from their modelling duties.

"Do we have enough souvenirs now?" Sherlock asks, once John and Mary are tasked with posing for more photographs, and even their smiles are looking a little tired.

"Just hang on a few more minutes," Molly mutters. "You can text in the car."

"Someone could be _dying_ because I'm not texting," Sherlock tells her, glancing sidelong at her.

"Then I'll be sure to take extra good care of them at work tomorrow," she replies.

The comment earns herself a low, throaty chuckle, and he turns away from the crowd, as if laughing about potential murder victims is something best done away from the gazes of other people, regardless of whether they hear the joke or not.

She can feel his eyes on her, and when she looks up to him, he puts an arm around her shoulder and draws her closer to him, pressing a kiss against the top of her head.

"What's that for?" she asks.

"I was just thinking," he says with a shrug of his shoulders. "If you'd said to me all those years ago, that we were going to be standing in front of a church, after officially being made godparents to an _actual_ baby..."

"You'd have said 'shut up and pass me my cigarettes'?" Her impression of him is far from accurate, but it gets the point across.

"Possibly," he concedes. "But I'd also be dead by now if it weren't for you."

Molly's stomach squirms at the reminder of pale flesh, of doses of Naloxone, of discarded syringes.

"We don't need to talk about this," she whispers, her voice catching in her throat.

"I know," he says, and he pulls her a little closer, a silent apology for the mental images he's brought back from the past. "I know, I know. It's just..."

"What?" Molly asks, aware of Mary's eyes lingering on them, a small smile tugging at her lips.

"Well," Sherlock says, looking up at the sky. "It's a beautiful day, isn't it?" He looks back down at Molly, and she can see, in his eyes, the changes that have clicked into place as a result of his new responsibilities. The phone is just a diversion, just a safety blanket for a man who's never quite been ready to grow up.

But here he is, after years of self abuse, standing in a church yard on a sunny Sunday morning, a godfather, of all things.

"Makes you glad to be here, doesn't it?"

When he says 'here', Molly knows he's not talking about the church yard. She swallows the lump in her throat and smiles, looping her arm around his back, between his jacket and his shirt.

"Yeah, it does."

There was a 'thank you' in there somewhere. She's sure of it.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** Thanks for the reviews folks! Love hearing your reactions. :)

* * *

 **Dust in the Air**

 **by Flaignhan**

* * *

She's living in a world of boxes.

But, _but_ , she has a garden. She can step out into the sunshine any time she pleases.

She has achieved garden status, in central London, and it feels so _so_ good.

Unpacking the kitchen stuff is easy, because there is plenty of space to hold the contents of her previous flat. Her vast array of mugs fit comfortably into one of the cabinets, as opposed to being crowded onto one shelf, and then overflowing onto the mug tree she used to keep on the counter top.

She's not sure she needs it now.

It's a nice feeling.

Mary comes to visit, and she brings Rosie with her, who stays fast asleep in her car seat while the two of them sit at the breakfast bar and share a pot of tea and a packet of biscuits.

Mary looks around the kitchen, nodding her approval, her hands clasped around her mug. "The girl's done good," she says, a smile breaking out across her face.

"It doesn't feel real," Molly confesses. "I mean, the crushing weight of my mortgage definitely feels real," she jokes. "But this place..."

"You deserve it," Mary tells her. "You do."

"Thanks," Molly says, and she takes another gingernut from the packet, and bites a piece off of it.

"Boys on a case today?" she asks, and a curious expression falls across Mary's face. She skews her lips to one side, her eyes alight with something that might be amusement.

"In a sense," she says slowly. She lifts her mug to her lips and takes a sip of her tea. "John's chaperoning Sherlock while he chooses a housewarming gift for you."

Molly nearly chokes on her biscuit.

"A _housewarming_ gift?"

He doesn't do that sort of thing.

"Yeah," Mary says with a shrug. "John's bringing our one across later as well. I couldn't carry it with her ladyship as well."

"Thanks," Molly says with a smile. She's touched - the only housewarming gift she's ever had was when she bought her old flat, and Stacey had showed up with a bottle of wine of which she'd proceeded to drink the majority.

Still, it's the thought that counts.

"Photos came through by the way," Mary says, and she pulls out her phone, and the two of them look through the photos from the christening, a bright ray of happiness captured on screen.

The photographer's tenacity has paid off - there are dozens and dozens of beautiful shots, with various beaming people holding Rosie, all dressed in their gladrags.

Molly wrinkles her nose at the photos featuring herself, although some, she admits, have managed to capture her good side.

"This is my favourite," Mary says, and she flicks across to the next photo, where Sherlock and Molly are standing apart from crowd, Rosie in Molly's arms, Sherlock with his arm curled loosely around Molly's shoulder. Their smiles are broad as they try to hide their laughter, and it's a rare moment of tranquility for the two of them.

Two oddballs, on the outskirts of normality, embracing their found family.

"Can you send me that?" Molly asks, and Mary does, straight away. A few more shots follow, including a candid one snapped while they were waiting for the cab to take them back to John and Mary's.

"There aren't any photos of us together," Molly says, saving each photo down to her phone as it comes through.

"Not _any_?" Mary asks. "Nothing?"

Molly shakes her head. "Twenty years, and this is the first time we've had our picture taken." She smiles, and she chooses _that one_ , the one where they're laughing, to chuck onto her Instagram. "And the best bit," she adds as she types a quick caption - _Rosie's christening 3_ \- "Is that we get our picture taken with our goddaughter!"

Molly looks across to Rosie, whose silence is suggestive of a very active night, which would explain the circles under Mary's eyes, just visible under a thin layer of concealer.

Despite this, Mary helps Molly get through a few more boxes, folding towels and bedsheets, putting them in the airing cupboard. She and Molly spend at least half an hour hanging up clothes in the built in wardrobes, and when Mary pulls out an aubergine coloured dress shirt, she raises an eyebrow.

"He's always kept spares at my place," Molly says with a shrug. "Give him the end one," she says, pointing to the single width cupboard on the far left.

Mary does, and soon his shirt is joined by a handful of others, a couple of pairs of trousers, and a spare pair of shoes that are relegated to the bottom of the wardrobe.

"How often does he stay over?" Mary asks. She tries to make the question sound casual, but fails miserably.

"Whenever he's in a bad mood, mostly," Molly replies, folding up a jumper and placing it into the chest of drawers. "Or if he's on withdrawal."

Mary nods, and continues to hang clothes. She doesn't say anything, and Molly feels a need to fill the silence, and so she opens up a little more.

"He lived with me," she tells her. "For a bit. After rehab."

"Oh so he did _go_ ," Mary says. "He did _actually_ go."

"Yeah," Molly replies. "He went in just before I graduated. Missed my graduation of course but it is what it is." She smiles briefly, but then adds, "Don't...mention it to him though. I don't think it was..." she trails off, unable to put her unease about his rehab stint into words, but she knows that Mary won't tell a soul.

She still wonders if it was really the right thing, for him to be holed up for ten weeks. It had worked, and worked for a long while, but the cost had been great.

He hadn't been able to sleep alone for weeks after.

The doorbell goes, and as Molly relishes in the notion that she can walk straight to her front door, no intercoms, no buzzers, Rosie starts to cry. She doesn't appreciate the rude awakening as much as Molly does.

Molly opens the front door, and John and Sherlock are standing on the doorstep, John proffering a huge bunch of flowers and a large silver gift bag.

"For you," he says with a grin, passing them to her.

"Thanks," Molly says, and she moves back so they can step inside.

"This is lovely," John says as he takes his coat off, and Sherlock shuts the door behind them.

"It's a _hallway_ , John," Sherlock says impatiently. He too has a gift, and it's in a large Selfridge's bag - none of the bells and whistles that Mary and John have afforded her.

She can definitely tell he's been dragged around Oxford Street against his will.

He sets the bag down at his feet and takes his coat off as John moves into the kitchen, towards the sounds of his daughter.

"Congratulations," Sherlock says. "You've managed to move your belongings from one part of the city to another, and acquire a larger mortgage."

Molly ignores him. "D'you want tea?"

His eyes meet hers, and he knows he's being wholly unpleasant. "Sorry," he mutters, and Molly shrugs, leading the way through to the kitchen. He picks up the bag with his gift and follows.

Molly sets her flowers and gift from John and Mary on the breakfast bar, refills the kettle at the tap, then sets it to boil. She empties out the teapot, and refills it with fresh bags, then takes down another couple of mugs from the cupboard for Sherlock and John.

Mary passes Rosie to John, who holds her close and sways her. The motion must be comforting, as she soon calms down, and Molly decides to open her present.

It's a beautiful cut crystal vase, and now the flowers make even more sense. She thanks the both of them, and fills it with water, emptying the sachet of plant food into it, just as the kettle clicks off the boil. She refills the teapot, and leaves it to brew, while she starts trying to cut the bottom couple of inches off of the thick stems of the flowers.

Her scissors aren't really cut out for the job, and after a moment, Sherlock pulls his pen knife from the inside pocket of his jacket. He pulls the flowers across to the other side of the breakfast bar, and makes quick work of the stems, before pushing the flowers back towards Molly so she can put them in the vase.

"Thanks," she says, as he flicks the blade back into his pen knife and dumps it into his pocket. Molly sweeps the ends of the stems into her palm, and chucks them into the bin, then moves the flowers to one side of the counter, so she has plenty of room start serving up the tea.

Sherlock helps himself to one of the biscuits, the pack laying open on the counter, next to the bag containing his gift. But then, his eyes narrow, and he scowls at a spot somewhere over Molly's shoulder.

"When did you get _that_?"

Molly turns around, to try and see what he's pointing at, and then her eyes land on her Tassimo, her coffee capsules stacked neatly next to it on a slender rack.

"Yesterday," Molly says turning back to the counter. She's about to ask what the problem is, but then her eyes land on the gift, and she realises exactly what the issue is.

He's bought her a coffee machine. Of _course_ he has. It was only a couple of days she was complaining about _not_ having one.

"Well," she says brightly, "Now I can have twice as much coffee."

"I'll take it back," he says, and he goes to grab the bag handle but Molly catches his hand before he's able to grasp it.

"No, come on," she says, moving his hand away from the bag. "I'm not sending you back to Oxford Street. I wouldn't do that to you." His eyes meet hers, and there is a hint of gratitude there, but then Molly looks down into the bag and drops his hand.

"I'm keeping it," she tells him, pulling it out of the bag. It's a proper coffee machine, a chrome one, one of the posh Italian ones, with sharp stylish angles.

"Are you _actually_ going to use _two_ coffee machines?" he asks with a sigh.

"I work sixty hours a week for the NHS," she says, and he relents with a smile, understanding her point. His sour mood lessening instantly. Molly catches a glimpse of Mary, whose shoulders sag in relief, before she looks across to John.

First Oxford Street, to get a housewarming present to go in a flat that he doesn't like, followed by said gift being very nearly made redundant by a recent purchase...he's treading a fine line between malcontent and shutting himself away for a week and a half.

He doesn't like change.

She pours his tea into his mug - although it no longer lives on the mug tree, it still sits at the front of the cupboard - and pushes it towards him.

It is one piece of familiarity he can rely upon.

* * *

She rolls over, and grins when her new bedroom comes into focus.

She keeps forgetting she's here.

She reaches out for her phone on the bedside cabinet, and has a quick browse through Facebook. Mary's uploaded and tagged all the christening photos, and Molly's notifications are filled with likes from people that she vaguely recognises from their outdated profile pictures.

It's a similar story on Instagram, except here Stacey has kept her account active, because she's not constantly seeing boring people she went to school or uni with popping out children or getting hitched, between swathes of armchair activism.

It's a fair enough decision, Molly will admit.

Stacey has, however, in addition to liking the photo of Molly, Sherlock, and Rosie, left a comment below, amongst all the 'cute!'s and 'Love your dress!'s.

 _Wow, you and Lord Pompous McArseface have been busy!_

Molly rolls her eyes, and has a good mind to delete the comment, but then chooses to reply instead, just to make it clear to anyone who had any doubt whatsoever.

 _We're godparents. GODPARENTS. xx_

Stacey knows this already, of course, but it doesn't hurt to reiterate.

She hears the sound of metal on metal, a quiet clanking from the hallway and she gets out of bed to investigate. She heads out into the hallway, and it's him, of course it's him. He's got the front door open, the cylinder of the lock is lying on the floor, discarded, while he slots a new one into place.

"Morning," she says. He has a screwdriver held between his lips, so his greeting in response is a bit muffled.

"Coffee?" she asks, and he nods, fiddling with a tiny screw, his brow furrowed in concentration.

Molly leaves him to it, and sets about making coffee - proper coffee, in the machine that he bought for her. She takes his mug out of the dishwasher - her kitchen is big enough for a dishwasher now, which makes her heart leap with joy - and sets it on the counter with hers.

She pours the coffee and dumps two sugars into it, then one in her own, and gives them both a good stir. She takes the coffee out to the hallway and sets his on the side table, where the keys to her new lock sit, shiny and freshly cut.

Molly leans against the wall and takes an optimistic sip of her coffee - far too hot - and watches while he secures the cylinder into place. At one point he gives it a good thump with the heel of his palm and the door shudders, but there is a tiny click, and he seems satisfied. He takes both keys and tests them in the lock - one is a little bit stiffer than the other, the edges a little sharper, and so he gives her the other one and instructs her to put it on her keyring.

"Thanks," she says, as he takes a break to drain some of his coffee. "You didn't have to - "

"You've been here three days," he says, lowering his mug and placing it back on the side table. "And you still haven't done it."

Molly opens her mouth to argue, but Sherlock cuts her off before she can say a thing.

"Besides, there's no point in wasting four hundred quid on a locksmith, is there?"

His estimate seems a bit steep, but then she spies the second packet on the sideboard. Instead of shiny brass, this lock is white, and she realises he must be planning to do the back door as well.

"Thanks," she says again. It's nice, when she feels like she might drown under her to do list, to wake up and find him sorting out a very boring and rather costly job for her. It makes the whole thing seem a bit less daunting.

He still hates the flat, she can tell.

Maybe he'll hate it a bit less if he's involved in some of the decisions.

She's suspects she's being optimistic again.

She heads back to the kitchen to put some bacon on - she's certain he won't have had any breakfast, and last night's dinner is questionable in terms of its existence too. She butters a couple of rolls and leans against the counter as the scent of bacon fills the air.

He joins her shortly after, coffee in one hand, lock and screwdriver clutched awkwardly in the other.

"That's an improvement," he says, glancing towards the grill.

"What? Breakfast?"

"The smell," he says, and he starts taking apart the handle of the back door, twirling the screwdriver between his fingers.

"What d'you mean?" Molly asks.

"Have you not noticed?" Sherlock asks, abandoning his work and turning to face her, an exasperated expression on his face. Molly looks at him blankly, waiting for him to elaborate, and when he does so, it's with a huff of impatience. "The _smell_."

" _What_ smell?" Molly asks, and she sniffs the air. Whatever it is, she can't smell a single thing besides the sizzling bacon

"Other _people_ ," he replies, and he turns back to the lock, jamming the head of the screwdriver into one of the screws with a little more force than is necessary.

Oh. _Oh_.

"What do other people smell like?" she asks, half curious, half concerned that he's picked up the scent of something dreadful. Surely her enthusiasm for a spacious kitchen and a back garden can't possibly have distracted her enough to hide anything particularly terrible. Can it?

"Beetroot," he says through gritted teeth. "And one of those stupid _vape_ things. And cheap incense. And musty furniture." He's on a roll now, there's no stopping him. "Rotten potatoes - they only cleared that cupboard out the day before you exchanged," he points to one of the base level units, next to the fridge. "And _Camembert_. On top of all that, _Camembert_."

Molly opens the oven, and is hit by a blast of warm, bacon scented air. Hopefully that will improve things for him, in the short term.

She dumps a couple of rashers into her roll, and a couple into his, and opens three different cupboards before she remembers where she decided to put her plates.

She might need a reshuffle, once some of the bigger jobs are out of the way.

"Well," she says, placing Sherlock's plate on the end of the counter. "I'll do my best to overwrite all of those smells. I might need about fifty scented candles, though."

He's not amused, but he sets the screwdriver down and picks up his roll. "Thanks," he says, and he takes a bite of it, before placing it back on the plate and recommencing work while he chews.

She wonders if she just ought to get some plugin air fresheners, whether that will be enough to mask the smell, or whether it will just add another problem into the mix. She ponders her options while she eats, and when she finishes, she decides to go and get showered and dressed.

She uses twice the amount of body wash as normal, but the mild coconut fragrance won't be any real sort of competition for the other elements in the flat.

Still, it's an effort.

Once she's dressed, and her damp hair is twisted up into a loose bun, she searches through the cardboard boxes full of miscellaneous knick knacks, and manages to source a couple of half spent scented candles - one vanilla, the other shea butter.

She puts one in the lounge and the other on the kitchen counter and lights them, knowing full well that she's fighting a losing battle. There's far more to Sherlock's displeasure than a handful of old smells that will disappear after a few weeks. She wonders if he even knows what it is. Maybe it's just a vague sense of unease that he can't quite shake off - a lack of familiarity proving a stark contrast to the tower block he had known so well. Maybe it's too quiet, without the grinding of a lift and neighbours on every side but one, or maybe it's too noisy; at ground level you can hear the traffic, the pedestrians, neighbourhood cats having a squabble, and even ambulance sirens from the nearby high street.

But he's barely been here to register that. He hated it before he set foot through the door.

Still, she supposes, he's made the trip, first thing, and he's helping her out. He's trying.

When the back door is looking proud with a bright new lock, Sherlock presses her second new key into her palm. He wanders into the lounge with a fresh cup of coffee and sinks onto the sofa. This is still the same, and she wonders if she'd better hold off replacing it until he's grown used to the rest of the flat. He pulls at a loose thread on the front of one of Molly's embroidered cushions, and Molly goes to join him.

"You okay?" she asks softly.

He nods, but doesn't say anything.

"Thanks for sorting out the locks," she adds. "That was very kind of you."

He looks across to her, eyes narrowed as he evaluates her and her gentle words, then after a moment, he releases a sigh, running a hand through his hair.

"I'm sure it'll feel more like home soon. You just need to get used to it."

"You know people can see you through these windows?" he gestures to a couple of women walking past the bay window, laughing loudly at something on one of their phones.

"So...your problem with this flat is the fact that the windows are see-through? Like...all windows?" She braces herself for the retort, knowing that he feels there is a much deeper meaning to his comment that makes it an incredibly valid point.

"So were your windows on the fourteenth floor, but you didn't have to worry about anything there, did you?"

She's exhausted by the conversation already.

"I'm not worried about anything _here_ ," she tells him, stretching her patience out as far and wide as she can.

"Well you _should_ be," he says. "There are at least _eight_ places that even an incompetent burglar could break in. Twelve for a semi competent one."

Molly sinks back further into the sofa. She wonders if he's feeling very alone at Baker Street at the moment.

Maybe he feels left behind.

She doesn't know why he should, plus she's closer than ever, just a twenty minute walk north, around the outskirts of Regent's Park. It's hardly a perilous journey.

He used to have to get a train and a bus in order to meet her after school.

She turns sideways, stretching her legs across the sofa, so that her left heel comes to rest on his knee.

It is a more effective counter argument than she could have realised, and he must realise that despite all his good deeds this morning, he's in an absolutely vile mood. He places his hand on her ankle, thumb brushing against the top of her foot.

She doesn't press him any further for details of his unnatural hatred of her new flat, but he sits quietly until he finishes his coffee. When he starts waggling his toes, tapping his feet against the floor, Molly knows he is itching for something to do, and he takes to the task of unpacking her books with something that looks almost like enthusiasm.

"How d'you want them?" he asks, pulling open the folded lid of the nearest cardboard box.

Molly purses her lips, knowing she is about to destroy his day further.

"I saw something on the internet," she says, looking down at the stacks of books tucked inside the boxes.

"Yes," he says, dragging out the word, evidently predicting some sort of terrible faux pas on her part.

"Well," she says, a brief smiling forming and disappearing as she pauses. "They were sorted by colour. You know, all the red spines together, all the blue ones..." She stops talking. He knows what colours are.

"Right," he says, blankly.

She wouldn't say that he looks dead on the inside, but he definitely looks like his respect for her has slipped into a coma.

He starts unpacking the books, and Molly decides it's probably a good opportunity to take on her gas and electric suppliers. It is the most boring day on record, and, nearly an hour later, when she's finally been shifted on to the right tariff, and set up her direct debit, she ends her call and goes to check on Sherlock's progress.

It's not quite the cute bookshelf she'd imagined. She had been hoping for a spectrum of colours, like a rainbow across her shelves.

The reality is, the spines of most of her books are black, white, or red. There are a good handful of multicoloured spines, and a decent number with photographs that stretch around the front and back covers.

What she takes away from this lesson, is that she doesn't have any green books. Or purple ones. Or pink. There are a handful of beigey yellow paperbacks, but nothing like the golden sunshine that she had been expecting.

It's a style that suits people who buy books for the way they look, as opposed to the words they hold.

"Alphabetically?" Sherlock asks, hands on hips as he looks between Molly and the neatly stacked shelves.

Molly nods, a pang of guilt tugging at her insides.

"By title or author?" he asks.

Molly thinks for a moment, glancing across to her books to see what would make the most sense. Half of the authors' names are unfamiliar, but they're books that she's read, books that she'll go back to, time and again.

"Title?" she suggests, although she's sure there's a right answer and this isn't it.

Sherlock raises one eyebrow, and waits.

"Author?" she says, changing her mind.

Sherlock nods. "And then?"

"And then what?" she asks. He's lost her now.

"And then by date?"

"Oh," Molly says, frowning. "No don't worry about that, that seems a bit much."

He continues to look at her, and she doesn't know why he's bothering to even ask her opinion, when he's just going to do what he thinks is best anyway.

"Fine, by author, and then by date."

"Good," he says, and he gets to work, index finger sliding along the spines of the books as he starts picking out all of the A's.

The wick on the scented candle is burning low, and Molly wonders if she might have another one tucked away in the bottom of one of the boxes in the spare room.

When she reaches the hallway, something shiny catches her eye. She turns to the side table, to see his set of keys, sitting on the tabletop. He's attached the two spare keys from Molly's new locks to his keyring.

He might hate her new flat, but it seems he's planning to spend plenty of time here.

She doesn't mind that. Not one little bit.


	4. Chapter 4

**AN:** Special thanks to Cinnsn and Stroke-of-Luck on tumblr for being excellent science nerds, who have both been of enormous help on this chapter.

* * *

 **Dust in the Air**

 **by Flaignhan**

* * *

An almighty crash shocks her into consciousness.

She sits up in bed, heart pounding, and hears someone scrabbling at the front door. She concentrates, trying to steady her breath so she can listen properly.

There's a jangle of keys, and the scraping of metal on metal as someone tries to put them into the lock.

It's him. And he's either high or he's hurt.

Molly swings her legs out of bed and hurries into the hallway, flicking on the light, recoiling at its brightness as she reaches for the door handle. He falls through the doorway, and she catches him, at the expense of the door swinging into the wall, and bashing into the coat hooks.

"What's wrong?" she asks, hauling him upright so she can see his face. There's a deep purple bruise around his eye, and he's having trouble focusing, although she doesn't think he's concussed.

He's definitely taken something.

"Mary," he slurs, and he gropes for the wall, trying to steady himself.

"What about Mary?" she asks. "What have you taken?"

He staggers into the side table, and Molly reaches past him to swing the front door shut.

"Something on the paper," he tells her, his words melting into one another. He squeezes his eyes tight shut and grips the edge of the table so hard that his knuckles pop under his skin. He sniffs, then scrunches his nose, and opens his eyes again, blinking rapidly, as though he thinks he might be able to reset himself.

"Come on," she says, and she places his arm around her shoulders and guides him into the lounge, his weight bearing down upon her as his feet scuff along the floor. She lowers him onto the sofa, and he covers his face with trembling hands.

"She's gone," he says, fingertips pressed against his forehead, the flesh under his nails turning white with the pressure. "She's gone."

Dread floods through her veins like a poison, and she clears a space on the coffee table, perching on the edge of it. She places one hand on his knee to still his jogging leg.

"What d'you mean _gone_?" she asks.

"Left," he says, voice filtering through the gap between his hands.

It can't be true.

For once, he must have put two and two together and gotten five.

He's allowed to be mistaken sometimes. Especially now. She would love for him to be mistaken now.

"Someone wants to kill her," he tells her, lowering his hands at last, his dilated pupils finding her face. His left hand covers her right one, and she laces their fingers together. "She's gone to find them."

"That sounds like a terrible plan," Molly says quietly, and he laughs, a small, hollow little laugh.

"What do I tell John?" he asks, voice croaking. "What do I tell him?"

"He'll understand," Molly tells him, her free hand finding his and giving it a squeeze.

He won't understand. He'll be devastated.

"I should go and - "

"No," Molly says. "You need to sleep this off first. You're no good to him like this."

"Speedball," he slurs.

" _No_."

He doesn't argue. He must know it's an idiotic suggestion. Whatever it is that's left him like this (she suspects sevoflurane) should not be dealt with by adding more drugs. She wonders how much of a viable option he considers it to be, regardless of her agreement. She makes a mental note to search through his coat while he sleeps this off, although, if he's made it this far without dosing himself up with cocaine then he probably doesn't have any readily available.

He slumps over to one side, then opens his eyes wide, trying to sit up straight.

"Bed," Molly says, and she stands up, his hands still in hers, and pulls him to his feet. He stumbles into her, and the weight of him nearly pushes them both back onto the coffee table, but she steadies him, and guides him into her bedroom.

She manages to get his coat off of him before he flops down onto the mattress, and she kneels down to pull off his shoes as well. He's out for the count already, and so she pulls back the duvet, lifts his legs into bed, then covers him up, rolling him into the recovery position.

Just in case.

She has a good look through all of his coat pockets, but there's nothing out of the ordinary, and she goes and hangs it up by the front door. She climbs back into bed, her hand finding his wrist so she can take his pulse - fair - and eventually, after much tossing and turning, she manages to fall asleep.

* * *

He's gone when she wakes up, and he must be feeling better, because he managed to leave without making a sound.

His shirt lies abandoned in the laundry basket, the door to his wardrobe left ajar.

It's the first night he's spent in the new flat. She hasn't woken to traces of his existence like this for a long while.

She's missed it.

She gets up and goes to make herself a coffee - a proper one, she needs it today. Twelve long hours at Bart's stretch ahead of her and she's fighting yawns at every turn after last night's disruption.

There's a note on the kitchen counter, biro scrawled onto a sheet from letter writing gift set she'd been given years ago and never touched. His handwriting is still a bit wobbly, but that could equally be anxiety, or the after effects of his unexpected dose.

 _Gone to sort this out, will be away for a bit. Text me if anything important comes up._

 _Soz about the speedball banter._

 _S_

She knows the non-apology for his bright idea thinly hides a sufficient amount of guilt and so she decides to tuck it away in the mental box of things best forgotten.

Maybe it had been a poorly chosen joke, humour lost in the slackness of his mouth.

She wants to tell him to be careful, but she doubts that would rank high on his scale of things which would be classed as important. It would, however, rank fairly high on the scale of things which can be ignored.

Regardless, she heads back into her bedroom to find her phone and type a quick text, hitting send before she can change her mind.

 _Stay safe x_

She doesn't think for one minute that she'll get a response, but at around eleven o'clock, her phone buzzes in the pocket of her lab coat. She takes her phone from her pocket, and a smile spreads across her lips, the constant niggling worry eating away at her quelled with one word.

 _Always_

* * *

Stacey pours more wine, which is always, simultaneously, both a good and a bad thing.

Molly doesn't complain, and she picks up her glass, then takes an approving sip from it.

This is the third time they've celebrated Molly's purchase of her new flat. She's not sure that the celebrations will stop here, but as long as Stacey brings the booze, she doesn't mind at all.

"And," Stacey says, lifting a finger to draw Molly's attention. "I can crash in your spare room now, instead of on the sofa."

"You can indeed," Molly tells her.

"Although," Stacey says, pulling a face as she draws her knees up towards her chest, wine glass cradled in her hands. "Has _he_ been sleeping in there? I don't want to catch anything."

"He's been away for _weeks_ ," Molly says with a roll of her eyes. "Not that there's anything _to_ catch."

"Honestly though," Stacey says, pausing to take a sip of her wine. "How often do you change the sheets in the spare room? Because I know I wouldn't touch them unless absolutely necessary."

Molly smiles. "He hasn't slept in there," she tells her. This is, apparently, a mistake. Stacey's eyes flash with delight and she leans forward, the ends of her hair dangerously close to falling into her glass.

"But he _has_ slept somewhere?"

"Emergency only," Molly replies, waving away her investigation.

"Is he still having a hissy fit about the flat?"

Molly sighs. _Yes_ , would be the short answer. But if it's good enough in an emergency then eventually it will be good enough altogether.

She'd be really worried if he'd gone to a hospital instead.

"He'll get used to it eventually," she says. She doesn't really want to talk about it if she's honest. She's constantly battling a gnawing anxiety, which only increases with each day and week that passes. She rarely has to contend with radio silence, and given the circumstances, and the state in which she last saw him, this time it's all the more troubling.

Molly leans forward, grabbing the bowl of crisps which they've been steadily munching throughout the evening, and balances it in her lap. She crunches through a few and Stacey, despite being at least two and a half sheets to the wind, takes the point and starts telling Molly about the new consultant vacancy she might apply for in Ealing.

Molly listens, and says vaguely encouraging things, her thumb brushing back and forth against the silver bangle on her wrist.

* * *

She's stretched out across the sofa, telly on, blanket half covering her while one leg peeps out from underneath, helping to regulate her body temperature. The TV spits out meaningless noise and images of tearful contestants on some reality show or another. It's hardly the high life, but it'll do, for a Wednesday.

Her phone buzzes on the coffee table, and a few more ad breaks pass before she leans across and swipes it from the corner of the table.

The message is from him.

She unlocks her phone with a hasty few taps of her thumb and opens up her messages.

 _At the airport. Coming home tonight. Will probably see you at the weekend._

She sits up, her ponytail lopsided after three hours squashed against the sofa cushions. A smile slowly spreads across her lips, and she reaches out for the remote control, blindly finding the power button so she can make the idiots on the TV shut the hell up.

She considers her reply, typing out a dozen different messages and deleting them all, before at last, she settles on something suitable.

 _Ok, see you then x_

It's terribly dull, but she's willing to bet that the length of time he's spent away directly correlates with how decent a trip it was. And she's willing to bet it wasn't decent. He hates things that are long and drawn out, and it's taken him weeks to get to this point.

She wonders how John has coped with him.

Sherlock was already delicate before he went away - irritable, on edge, throwing himself into his work in a pretence of normality. Maybe he needs some downtime.

Maybe he needs a proper holiday.

Although for him, that would most likely mean a proper case. Maybe one that doesn't involve his closest friends.

Maybe it's the wrong job for him these days.

She decides to call it a night, and she drags herself to bed, stifling a yawn as she changes into her pyjamas. She's feeling a lot better already; she's been retaining tension in her shoulders, her body getting stiffer and stiffer each day, but now that's starting to loosen and ease out. Now she's on the mend.

She sleeps through until her alarm for the first time in a long time, and when she goes into the kitchen to make her first cup of coffee of the day, there are two things on the kitchen counter that hadn't been there last night.

The first is a postcard, showing a busy square filled with stalls and people, the ornate tower of a mosque stretching high into a dusky sky. She turns it over, but there's no scrawled message on it.

It's just a keepsake.

She sticks it onto her fridge with a magnet, then turns to the brown paper bag, the top of it folded over and taped shut. She tears it open, and out falls a small beaded bracelet.

It's very pretty; the beads are all different colours and she can tell it's handmade. She smiles as she slips it over her wrist, and supposes that if he's had time to buy souvenirs, things must be absolutely fine.


	5. Chapter 5

**Dust in the Air**

 **by Flaignhan**

* * *

She's hollow.

She's numb.

Rosie, however, is fast asleep in her travel cot at the end of the bed. Molly can hear her soft little puffs of breath, the occasional sigh or shift of her blanket as she changes position.

Molly cannot sleep.

She doesn't know if she'll ever be able to sleep again.

It can't be true. It just _can't_.

And yet, given that it was Mycroft who made the call, his heavy tired voice at the end of the phone, she knows it must be true.

This isn't the type of lie he'd tell.

She hasn't heard from John at all, which only further backs up Mycroft's claim. Mycroft had asked if she would be able to take care of Rosie for the rest of the night - it's the first time she's heard Rosie's name from his lips - that her assistance might possibly be required tomorrow as well. He'd said it would be impossible to predict how grief would strike John, that there was no telling where exactly it would attack him first, and how debilitating the initial sucker punch would be.

He'd promised to call her in the morning.

She thinks he must have liked Mary.

She sits in bed all night, immersed in darkness but for the half inch of hallway light filtering in through the crack in the door, left ajar for Rosie's benefit.

She'll wake to an entirely different world.

Molly keeps her phone clutched in her hand, in case anyone calls, or texts. She burrows further into her duvet, a warm and soft world. It's the last form of comfort she can grasp before reality hits hard tomorrow. She checks her phone periodically, but it's just a soul destroying way to watch the minutes drag by, and eventually form quarter hours, then halves, then wholes.

She can't watch TV. She can't listen to music. She can't read. She can't do anything but sit in the dark and feel the crushing weight of loss all around her. Echoed in that is the loss that the others must feel - John, without a wife and facing fatherhood alone; Rosie, without a mum to guide her; and Sherlock, without one of his few close friends.

Molly has known grief, plenty of it. This is right up there with the worst of it, and she doesn't know what to _do_. There is a child sleeping in the cot at the foot of her bed, completely unaware that the world has changed forever.

Molly sits in the dark, and she waits for the sun to rise.

* * *

It gets worse, before it can start to get any better.

She hopes and prays for the better to come, sooner rather than later, and in the meantime, she pitches in as much as she can.

Sherlock is persona non grata in the Watson household.

John blames him, and it's illogical. Deep down, he must know it. He _must_. There was no way Sherlock, nor anyone, for that matter, could have predicted what would happen.

And yet, the blame lays at his feet.

She barely has time to talk to Sherlock in the days that follow. There's a brief phone call, in which she asks if he's all right, and he tells her he's not in a voice that sounds like it's not quite there. He asks the same of her, and she answers the same, her tone the same, everything the same.

She tells him he should come round one evening, and he agrees, but doesn't commit to anything. She knows he won't come, and he knows she's busy helping John as much as possible.

He steers clear.

It's not what either of them need.

But, as ever, it's the hand they've been dealt.

Funeral planning is not nice, but it's not until they're deciding on pallbearers that it becomes terrible.

There's John, of course, and there's Greg, and then John skips right to a friend of Mary's that she remembers vaguely from the wedding. He'd been a bit twitchy.

Molly looks at John across the kitchen table, the soft pages of funeral parlour brochures open in front of them, reflecting the spotlights in the ceiling. She doesn't even need to say his name, but John starts shaking his head.

"Nope," he says, he doesn't meet her eye, just continues to keep his fist clenched on the table, gripping his biro so tightly it might shatter. "Not him, I'm not having him there, not after - "

"John." Her voice is soft and she doesn't want to argue with him. In fact it's the last thing she wants to do. But she'll do it, if she has to.

It's not a decision he can _ever_ take back.

"He should be there," she says. "You don't have to speak to him - "

"She's _dead_ , Molly," he says through gritted teeth, his gaze fixed on the table. "Because of him, and his _stupid_ mouth."

"John - "

"He was showing off! She's dead because he was showing _off_." He buries his face in his hands, and the tears start to come silently, his shoulders shaking with each suppressed sob. Molly reaches across the table, closing her hand gently around his forearm while he cries. She doesn't reignite the argument, but lets him go for as long as he needs to, until the tears dry up and the lump in his throat recedes enough for him to feel like he can continue.

"I'd rather Mycroft - " John begins, but his throat must still be a little clogged, because he stops, and wipes at his eyes with the heel of his palm.

"She was his friend," Molly says, as gently as she is able. "She loved him so much that she was determined to save him. If you don't let him come to the funeral, after she chose to do what she did...you can't take that back John. We all get one opportunity to say goodbye and you shouldn't..." She doesn't even know what this is. Spite? Revenge? Is he lashing out because he's angry and grieving? Whatever it is, he doesn't get to do it. Mary might have been his wife, but she was and _is_ very much loved by other people too. Including Sherlock. _Especially_ Sherlock.

John doesn't get to be the gatekeeper to Mary's funeral. She won't let him make that mistake.

"And you think he should..." John swallows, but the words still take a while to come. "You think he should get to carry her?"

"If not him, who?"

She has him stumped there. With only six or seven years of this life, as Mary, to draw from, it's not going to be a jam packed funeral. There aren't that many candidates for pallbearer.

"You don't have to talk to him, not if you're not ready."

John covers his face with his hands, but Molly knows she's getting through to him.

"I'll keep him in check, I _promise_ , but you can't not let him come. You _can't_."

It must do the job, because he completely ignores her words, then lowers his hands and takes a deep breath before pulling the florist's brochure towards him. He flicks through the pages, the pauses on one.

"Lilies?" he asks, voice croaky.

Molly nods. "Yeah," she says. "Lilies."

It's when she's about to leave that John has another cry. His grief swallows him whole and spits him out, and Molly knows, she _knows_ it is the weight of a silent home, bearing down, crushing him every single second of every single minute.

She puts her arms around him, and he sinks into her shoulder, his tears dampening her cardigan.

There's nothing she can say.

She handles death every single day, but when it comes to the bereaved, she has nothing to say.

There's nothing that could make it better anyway. What _do_ people say? Surely not that _don't cry because it's over, smile because it happened_ bullshit? Surely no one says _that_ to a real, grieving human being?

Ten minutes and six (unnecessary) apologies later, she's heading out of the front door, on her way back to the flat to catch up on some much needed sleep. As she waits for the bus, she types out a quick text to Sherlock.

 _Come over tonight please xx_

His response comes the very next minute.

 _OK_

* * *

She's still in bed when she hears his key in the lock. She's cosy under her duvet, and has been drifting in and out of an exhausted sleep for the past hour or so. She checks the time on her phone - seven thirty - and a glance at the curtains tells her that the sky outside is darkening fast, the last glows of sunlight disappearing over the rooftops.

She calls out his name, and after a few seconds he pushes open her bedroom door. In the darkness, she sees him slip off his jacket and hang it on the hook on the back of her door. He toes off his shoes, kicking them to one side, before he lifts the covers and slides into bed next to her.

She moves closer to him, resting her head on his chest, and he slips an arm around her, his fingertips playing with the hem of her t-shirt.

She wants to go back to sleep, wants the pair of them to get a good night's rest together, because she can guarantee that sleep has been just as evasive for him as it has for her. He probably needs to eat as well.

So does she, for that matter.

Before they do anything else however, she needs to have this conversation with him. She needs to drive home her words, make sure they settle in his brain, before they can become distracted.

Tragedy makes the world go faster, and slower.

"You can come to the funeral," she says, and her head rises with his chest as he breathes in sharply, but no words follow. He doesn't know what to say.

"Don't speak to him though," she adds. "He's not ready."

"Of course he's not," Sherlock replies. "I killed his wife."

"No you _didn't_ ," Molly says firmly. "You didn't and you _know it_. It was horrible and pointless and petty and _stupid_ and a lot of other things, but it _wasn't_ your fault."

"He thinks it is," Sherlock mutters.

"And he's _wrong_ ," Molly replies. The world is all out of shape at the moment, but of this she is certain. "He's wrong, but he's also grieving, so you just need to give him the space he needs."

Sherlock doesn't say anything, but he does pull her fractionally closer. He's needed her this week, but he hasn't asked for her, hasn't assumed he could just turn up and have her all to himself. He's been stewing, alone in Baker Street, having decided that right now, John needs her more than he does.

Sherlock can't have bothered to consider that she might need him too.

"You're going to be a pallbearer."

He turns his head on the pillow, looking down at her. She lifts her head from his chest, her eyes meeting his in the darkness, and she can just about make out the tiny frown creasing his brow.

"How did you manage that?"

Molly shrugs. "I didn't have to shout at him, so that's a bonus."

"Would you have?" Sherlock asks.

"Course I would," she replies, settling her head back on his chest. "Of course. He can't just have some random bloke carry her because he's fallen out with you. You only get to do this once for her."

Sherlock's chest deflates slowly, and then he presses a kiss to the top of her head.

"Thank you," he breathes.

She holds him tightly, and his left hand finds hers, lacing their fingers together.

They sleep for a couple of hours, and when Molly wakes, she orders some pizza, and the two of them placate their growling stomachs. She doesn't care that the box is a bit greasy underneath, nor does she care that she'll probably find crumbs in her bed in the morning.

They eat pizza in bed, and then go back to sleep. There are lots of ways to deal with grief, and this is, apparently, their own special brand.


	6. Chapter 6

**Dust in the Air**

 **by Flaignhan**

* * *

The coffin is wonky.

In another universe it might be funny. In a parallel world where John and Sherlock are still friends, they would be able to smile about it, a little blip of light on a terminally dark day.

But no. At the back, the coffin rests on Sherlock's shoulder, a good four or five inches higher than it sits on John's at the front. Greg is at the front with John too, and he's also taller, and though the difference isn't quite as obvious, it's still visible. David is at the back, but again, he's not quite as tall as Sherlock.

Maybe it's what Mary would have wanted. Maybe somewhere, she's having a quiet giggle to herself.

Molly hopes so.

Sherlock comes to her side as soon as his duties are done, while John lingers at the coffin, his left palm resting flat against the wood. Greg stands on Molly's other side, hands clasped in front of him, while next to him is Mrs Hudson, holding Rosie.

It's a carefully constructed three person buffer that other guests will be too preoccupied to notice. Which is the point, really.

His hand finds hers, and it's shaking, just a little, just enough for her to notice. Mycroft, on Sherlock's other side, making up the last of the front row, places a hand on Sherlock's shoulder.

It brings them all together, in the end.

The service is as lovely as it can be, and Mycroft, further proving evidence of his deeply hidden compassion says a few words. John is silenced by grief, and it would be one step too far for Sherlock to say something at this point. It's the last thing John would appreciate.

Mycroft speaks of Mary's intelligence, her courage, and her good humour. He makes a comment about her being full of surprises, which from the corner of Molly's eye, she can see raises a smile from Sherlock.

His words are surprisingly kind and gentle. Molly feels a shade of guilt for wondering if he's had help with them, but it's a very genuine possibility. He manages to say a few words for both John and Rosie, which stretches his level of comfort to the limits, but he finishes well, declaring how very loved Mary was by those fortunate enough to know her.

The false idea that the Holmes boys are powered by chilly machines rather than beating hearts is looking more and more ridiculous by the day.

Sherlock keeps a hold of Molly's hand throughout the service, and only lets go when she has to join John to head on to the wake. They'd decided between the two of them that it would be better for Sherlock to avoid that part of the day. The important thing is that he was able to say goodbye.

She hugs him before he departs to the main road, and he holds her for a little while longer than she expects, then kisses her temple before he lets go and turns away without another word.

She wants to go with him, because he shouldn't be on his own, even if he thinks he'd prefer it.

She worries about bad decisions.

She ducks into the hearse with the others, and they sit in silence as they crawl through the traffic, back to a quiet little pub function room with a few hundred pounds behind the bar and a half decent buffet. They couldn't have gone back to John and Mary's place. Not all those people in their space, dressed in black, and talking about Mary in the past tense.

So the pub it is, and the bonus of that is by six o'clock, with the buffet depleted, and a couple of rounds of drinks consumed, people start to filter out. They give John their best wishes, tell him to call if he needs anything at all, though only a handful of them genuinely mean it, and the only ones who John would ever consider calling are still with him at the bitter end.

Greg is sitting in a squashy leather chair, Rosie sleeping soundly on his chest, Mrs Hudson sending doting smiles in their direction as she bustles around, unnecessarily tidying up the paper plates and foil platters, collecting used glasses and depositing them on the bar.

The barmaid has no complaints.

Molly goes to join John in the corner, while he nurses a large whiskey, the last the bar tab has to offer (except maybe a packet of pork scratchings and a lime soda).

"Thank you," he says, his words breaking on their way out. He clears his throat, and says it again, his voice stronger. "Thank you, for your help today. I don't think I could have gotten by without you."

A sad smile forms on her lips, and she places her hand on his, squeezing it gently. She's been hyper vigilant all afternoon, and the other guests must have thought her completely mental, popping up in conversations to change the subject whenever John has looked hopelessly lost. Her tactics have been enough to allow him to back away without anyone noticing, to retreat to a quiet corner, or a toilet cubicle to have a few minutes on his own.

She's done her best. She probably could have done better, and between her and Sherlock, had he been here, they could have shouldered a greater load.

But they've made it through the other side without incident, and that's the best she could have asked for this morning.

"You can go if you like," John says. "I know you want to be with him. You've done plenty here."

Molly shakes her head. "Later," she says. "He can look after himself for a few hours."

John nods and stares straight ahead, his face pale and drawn. In the past week, his skin has taken on a greyish hue, his mouth set in a downward curve.

He looks like he's had his soul torn out.

"Anything," Molly says. "Ever. Don't you dare be too proud to ask."

He swallows, and lifts his whiskey to his lips again, taking a burning sip. His thumb twitches at the tops of her fingers, pressing them a fraction tighter against his palm. It's his silent acknowledgement, a thanks without a thanks.

But she knows he won't call.

It's fine. She can make sure her contact is regular, that she puts as much energy as she can in popping round for a cup of tea, taking Rosie for a day or a night. She can sit with him in quiet evenings if he likes, and they can talk about Mary for hours on end, or they can press on through the silence together.

He has a long way to go before he can consider normality. A new normality at least.

She goes with him back to the flat, after seeing Mrs Hudson off in a taxi, and Greg heads north for the tube.

John settles Rosie down for the night, and Molly puts the kettle on, making two large mugs of tea. She doesn't know how to help him, but she knows he shouldn't be alone this evening.

They drink their tea, slouched on the sofa, and eventually John puts the TV on. Anything to drown out the silence. They're served repeats of _Black Books_ and _Spaced_ , and Molly feels like she ought to be smiling at some points, but she can never quite make it happen.

She looks across to John, who isn't paying attention at all. He's lost inside his grief, but she's there, if he needs her.

It's half past eleven when he tells her she should go home and get some sleep. She obeys, because it looks like he might actually try and get some much needed rest too, and she calls a cab to take her home.

She hugs him before she leaves, holds him tightly because she knows he needs it, and reiterates that he is to call her whenever he needs her, or someone, or _anyone_.

"You don't have to do this alone," she whispers, and gives him a final squeeze before she releases him.

The lights of the cab flare on the pavement outside, and John opens the front door, nodding his farewell; he can't bring himself to say a single word.

The ride home is dull. Lights flash by and at every turn, she is reminded that Mary is no longer in the world. It doesn't get any easier. Each time the revelation hits her, it is another punch to the gut, a slap to the face.

She's relieved when she gets home, and the first thing she does when she gets through the front door is kick her shoes off. There are welts in her feet from standing in heels all day, and the flatness of her floorboards feels like heaven to her soles.

She goes into the lounge and flicks the light on. Her breath catches in her throat when she sees him, sitting on the sofa, still as a statue. She's not surprised he's ended up here, not really.

He doesn't look at her, just stares at the fireplace, his face empty of expression, while he flits about his mind palace.

"What are you doing?" she asks softly.

"Trying to work out how many ways I could have done things differently."

"Don't do that," Molly sighs, and she perches on the arm of the sofa, putting her arm around him,

"There are at least seven ways I could have handled it that wouldn't have resulted in _this_." He gestures to their clothes, to her black dress, and his own black suit and tie.

The only time she's ever seen him wear a tie before was at the wedding. He was forced to then. Today he put one on of his own accord, and it's still fastened around his neck. He hasn't even undone his top button yet.

"You'll just torture yourself," Molly tells him. "It won't bring her back, it'll just make you suffer."

"And what if I deserve that?" His response is quick, but it's not self pitying. He considers it a fact.

Maybe that's the worst part.

"It's not your fault. Don't use hindsight to convince yourself otherwise."

"I should have stopped talking." He's not listening to her, not taking in her words at all. He's caught in limbo between his mind palace and the real world, thinking out loud while his memories haunt him. "I should have _stopped talking_ and looked around me. It was so _stupid_..."

"It's _not_ your _fault_."

He looks up at her at last, his eyes filled with uncertainty.

"No?" he mumbles.

"No," she says, with a minute shake of her head. His hair is all over the place, a result of his hands stressfully running through it, pulling at it while he overthinks every single nanosecond. She gently combs it back into place with her fingers, and he looks down at the floor. He reaches up to unfasten his top button, and tug at his collar to give himself a little bit of breathing space, then he toes off his shoes and kicks them under the coffee table.

He's staying tonight.

His hands rest on his knees, clenching them into loose fists every so often as his mind slips away and gives him endless alternatives, none of which she wants to think about.

"Tea?" she asks, and she rubs his shoulder, bringing him back to himself.

"I'll make it," he says, and he springs up, shrugs off his jacket, which drops onto the sofa, then darts out of the living room, heading for the kitchen.

Molly bites her lip, then picks up his jacket, smoothing out the creases, and goes to hang it next to his spare coat. She hears the water hitting the inside of the kettle with unnecessary force as the tap is turned on full, followed by the slamming of the kettle onto its stand.

He needs a release.

Molly lingers by the stairs. She's never had to deal with him when he's been angry before. Properly angry that is, not high and angry, or on withdrawal and angry. This is grief, and it is raw; all the rawer for it being such a pointless, silly waste. Mary's death was not a result of an incurable disease, or a terrible accident, like a car crash, or a house fire. It was an act of courage, to counter an act of spite.

She was killed by a bullet that was shot entirely out of pettiness, and _that_ is the hardest part.

For Sherlock, the one who is here, because Mary is not, she can't imagine how it must feel.

She pads into the kitchen, where Sherlock is searching through the cupboards, his breathing getting more and more agitated as he searches for the tea bags.

"Your fingerprints are _everywhere_ ," he says through gritted teeth, and Molly moves past him to open the correct cupboard.

"Well," Molly says. "It's my kitchen. Of course they are."

"But _why_ are your fingerprints all over a cupboard that only has pasta in it?"

She has a lot of cupboard space these days.

And she eats a lot of pasta.

She passes him the tea bags, and he snatches three from the box, before he shoves it back into the cupboard and tries to slam the door.

It doesn't make a sound.

He is, she thinks, all the more irritated by the soft close cabinets, and he flings the teabags into the bottom of the pot, every action an attempt at exerting some of his pent up energy. He needs the satisfying bang before it will take effect though, slamming the doors isn't enough. He needs the impact.

Molly leans back against the breakfast bar while Sherlock waits for the kettle to boil - distraction has led him to overfill it - and then she lifts herself up onto the counter, legs dangling over the side. She lets him get on with things, and when he pours the boiling water into the teapot she can't quell the worry that his slapdash approach to tea this evening might result in a serious burn.

He makes it through unscathed, and the kettle crashes once more back onto its stand.

Molly shifts over on the counter, to her left, where there is a head height cabinet, just in reach. She opens the door, and stretches across to the hinges, where she unclips the soft close mechanism, and it springs free, so she is able to slide it out.

When she turns back to Sherlock he is standing in the middle of the kitchen, his mug in his right hand, hers in his left. He's staring at her, and she knows he's updating his mental file on her, but she doesn't know why.

"What?"

"You," he says in a low breath.

He seems to recalibrate, and his feet shift about on the spot for a moment, as though he's lost the thread of what he's doing. Then he moves to her, placing the mugs on the counter, his hands drawing close to her and then stopping short, at the last moment.

He's close.

He's very close, and she doubts he knows what he wants. Maybe, like her, he just wants to forget about all of this, for just a little while. Maybe he just wants some respite from the overwhelming grief that is dragging them beneath the depths.

His breath is warm and shaky and she can feel it ghost across her collarbone, a small section of the lace overlay of her dress rippling in its wake.

"If you want to slam them," she says, her voice barely above a whisper. "Then slam them properly."

He closes his eyes, and the loose fabric of her dress shifts as his fingers catch the edge of the skirt.

When he opens his eyes, they flick towards the stray bit of fringe falling into her eyes. He brushes it back with his thumb, which then trails down and along her jaw.

Her fingers curl around the edge of the counter and she grips it tightly, her breath hitching in her throat.

"What are you doing?" she whispers.

"I don't know."

He is broken, shattered into a thousand pieces, and she has no idea how to put him back together again.


	7. Chapter 7

**Dust in the Air**

 **by Flaignhan**

* * *

She doesn't read the note.

It's not hers to read, but even if it were, she'd keep it folded.

It's one piece of paper, yet it feels heavy in her hand, like it has tiny invisible weights threaded throughout. She can feel the words on it, where John has pressed the point of his biro too hard into the surface of the paper. There'll be a mark on the table somewhere, words drawn by grief a permanent fixture until the time comes to replace the furniture.

When she puts the note in her pocket, she's constantly aware of it, of the folded corner, which occasionally jabs her in the thigh, just in case she'd dared to forget about.

"Anyone but him," John says, his voice cracking. He turns away, at the precise moment that Molly's heart fragments.

It hurts for them to be like this, and it doesn't make _sense_. But grief never does, she knows that only too well.

When her dad had died, she had not gone to Stacey, had not sought comfort from her best friend, and she had stubbornly refused to call her mother, despite it being the worst thing she has ever lived through. Instead, she had gone to a grubby flat in Islington, and cried on the shoulder of a junkie who had, at the time, been high as a kite.

Grief is illogical.

Which makes it even harder to understand for the man who _only_ understands logic.

She doesn't agree with it, not for a moment, nor does she believe that any of this is Sherlock's fault. The dust is still in the air, and it will take a while to settle.

But it will settle, of that she is certain.

She agrees, both to tell Sherlock, and to pass on the note, containing words written by a shaking hand that the mouth cannot say.

"He'll take it better from you," John says, and Molly wonders if this is supposed to be a small act of mercy for Sherlock, harsh words falling from soft lips. Or maybe he knows that Sherlock is perfectly capable of being shut down by Molly, that any protests may not even be uttered, let alone passed along.

Whatever it is, she shoulders the burden for the sake of her friends, in the hope that messenger will, one day soon, become intermediary, and some day after that, they can all start to heal together.

It feels like foolish optimism right now, but she needs it, when her heart feels like a cracked lead weight in her chest, and she spends the nights lying awake, thinking about _everything_ , and how they managed to wind up on this path.

Maybe the grass isn't greener on the other side, maybe other paths lead to other losses, all just as painful.

They've all got to join Mary eventually, after all.

She reads through old text exchanges with Mary, even reads some aloud to Rosie, to try and keep her mother's turn of phrase alive.

When she reaches the christening pictures, a lump builds in her throat. The six of them all together, smiling for the camera (it must have been an earlier photo, one before the muscles in their cheeks had begun to feel the strain). They all look so _happy_ , and it hurts.

Of course, the golden summer couldn't last forever.

* * *

It's the first time she's seen him since the morning after the funeral. She stands on the doorstep, Rosie held in her arms, while he slowly extracts an offer of help from his brain and pushes it out of his lips.

She wishes she could take him up on it, give him something to do, have an extra pair of hands to help John.

But no.

She gives him the note, passing the burden from her pocket to his hands. He shouldn't read it now. Not out on the street, when she's got a baby in her arms and is ill equipped to comfort him. He should read it at home, where Mrs Hudson can soothe him with a cup of tea, and assurances that things will get better soon.

He takes her point when she tells him he doesn't have to read it now, and maybe the old Sherlock would have ignored her and opened it anyway, would have been overpowered by the need to know what's happening, and what's been said. But this Sherlock understands that it's another one of those times when her words are loaded with the will to be kind.

When she says the next words, the ones which have been rotting in her head ever since John had uttered them, Sherlock doesn't say anything. His face is blank for a few seconds while they settle in, and she thinks she can detect the moment where they make impact. He blinks twice in quick succession, a flicker of pain which he'd surely known would come with this visit.

And yet he's here anyway.

He's a much better man than anyone gives him credit for, including himself.

 _Especially_ himself.

She turns away, and heads back into the flat before she can go off script. There'll be time for that later, and the last thing she needs to do is alienate herself from John when he's already one friend down and struggling to stay afloat.

He's standing by the window, watching through the blind, his arms folded across his chest.

"Thank you," he mumbles.

She nods, and passes Rosie back to him, then disappears to the bathroom for a few minutes.

She doesn't cry, but she can't speak either, her throat clogged with sorrow. She pulls her phone from her pocket and sends him a text, her thumbs shaking as they tap the screen.

 _I'm sorry xx_

The reply comes almost instantaneously.

 _I know._

* * *

Her body aches when she gets in, the toll of grief and stress making itself known in every fibre of her being. Her stomach gurgles unpleasantly, and maybe it's guilt, maybe it's too much tea and not enough food, maybe it's a lot of things, but she ends up dashing to the bathroom to empty her stomach.

Even though she understands, even though she can see things from John's perspective, she still can't believe she had to do that.

She never wanted to be the one to break Sherlock.

She's worried that this might undo a lot of good work. Where has caring got him after all? A funeral of one friend and the estrangement of another. A goddaughter he cannot see.

If he's not properly equipped to deal with this latest blow, he'll have been catapulted backwards.

She doesn't like that idea.

It's liquid and bile that splatters against the porcelain. Nothing substantial, which is a definite sign that she needs to get something down and keep it down.

She can't think about that now, with her head hanging over the toilet. She's grateful she chose a bun today, rather than be left with task of clawing her hair back with trembling fingers while she heaves up her stomach contents.

It's the smallest silver lining she's ever grasped at, but these days she'll take what she can get.

When she's done, she rinses her mouth, then splashes cold water over her face and pats it dry with a towel. She heads back to the kitchen, trying to ignore the tremor in her thighs as she walks. She brushes her hand against the counter as she moves towards the sink, in the hope of grabbing something should her legs decide to spite her even more than her stomach already has.

She gets a glass of water and turns around, leaning back against the sink, taking careful sips.

She looks out across the room, to the opposite window, her left arm folded across her stomach, fingers hanging onto the edge of her cardigan. The bleached daylight pouring in through the kitchen window bounces off of the cabinets, and on one, the one over the end of the breakfast bar, she can see a handprint on it.

A large handprint.

She should check in on him. And she should get some food.

There's no reason why she can't kill two birds with one stone.

She ditches her stiff collared shirt and chooses a comfy t-shirt, then slips her cardigan back on, slings her bag over her shoulder and is out the door. She decides to cab it; her legs are still a bit wobbly, and she's tired, _so tired_.

She flags one down on the high street, and then she's on her way, darkness clouding overhead, the streetlights pinging into life as they go. After much internal toing and froing, she gets the driver to drop her off at the Chinese takeaway closest to 221B.

She orders a bit more than she normally would, aware that he will have been neglecting his eating habits in much the same way she has.

She doesn't have any appetite whatsoever.

Maybe once they get going, and their mouths get used to chewing again, they'll become ravenous.

It's optimistic, she knows.

She raps the knocker twice and waits outside, the smell of the food wafting up from the carrier bag towards her nose. Her stomach gurgles, and she's not sure if it's with anticipation or dread.

There's only one way to find out.

Mrs Hudson opens the door and wraps Molly in a hug before she can even step over the threshold.

"How are you, love?" she asks, hands on Molly's shoulders, inspecting her with searching eyes. "You look a bit peaky."

"I'm okay," Molly says, nodding as she steps into the hallway. "Been better, been worse, you know." She offers a brief smile, and Mrs Hudson rubs her upper arm, giving a sympathetic nod of understanding.

"And you?" Molly asks. "How are you getting on?"

"Oh you know," she sighs, her shoulders sagging, a wistful expression on her face.

"Yeah," Molly says. "I know."

"He's not eating by the way," Mrs Hudson says, pointing a finger to Molly's carrier bag. "He's flat out refused everything I've taken him."

"I'll talk him round," Molly says, and she looks up the staircase, half expecting his head to appear above as he leans over the bannister to see who's dared to encroach on his territory.

It's quiet.

Molly bids Mrs Hudson good evening, and heads upstairs. She walks carefully over the floorboards, her footsteps soft and quiet.

He can probably still tell it's her.

She reaches out for the door handle and twists it, opening the door slowly.

He's laying on the sofa, feet propped up on the far arm rest, his fingers laced together and resting on top of his chest. His shirt sleeves are loosely rolled up, his forearms appearing golden from the streetlights outside.

"D'you want me to put the lamps on?"

He breathes in, and tilts his head minutely so he can see her out of the corner of his eye.

She doubts he cares very much, but the question gives him ample warning to shield his eyes before the inevitable.

He is incredibly predictable, and he moves his forearm across his face. When he is suitably protected by the crook of his elbow, Molly walks over to the lamp by the sofa and flicks the switch.

She sets the food down on the (now illuminated) coffee table, and heads towards the opposite end of the room, bringing the lamps by the bookshelves into life. Then, she grabs some plates and cutlery from the kitchen, and takes them back to the sofa, where Sherlock is now sitting up, a warm space waiting for her where his shoulders had been.

His head is bowed, and he's looking at the floor, arms resting against the tops of his legs.

"I haven't really been eating much," Molly says, and he looks up at her, his eyes flicking up and down her body, assessing her. The last time she had a decent meal was with him, pizza in bed.

Maybe they should do this more often.

"You've lost weight," he says.

"So've you," Molly replies, and she sinks onto the sofa next to him. It's true - he looks a little gaunter, a lot paler, and she can tell it's been days for him too.

He reaches for the bag and starts pulling out the containers inside, placing them in one neat row on the coffee table. He discards the bag, and then starts dishing out food, piling Molly's plate high, but being slightly more cautious with his own portions.

"I know what you're doing," she says.

His mouth twitches, but it doesn't quite make it to a smile, and they eat in silence. Molly feels slightly better, but also not great, and she decides to keep eating. If nothing else, it'll keep her going for a while.

When they finally manage to clear the bulk of it, Molly exiles the dirty plates to the kitchen. After throwing away the foil containers she returns to the lounge.

Sherlock's head is in his hands, fingertips pressing into his scalp.

He's going through it all again.

She walks over to him, and closes her fingers around his wrist, her thumb brushing against the back of his hand.

"Sherlock," she murmurs, but he doesn't look up. It's another few seconds before he releases his head, and wraps his arms around her waist instead, drawing her closer, his head resting against her stomach.

She combs her fingers through his hair, and his grip on her becomes a little less fierce as a result, tension eking out of him.

"I know," she whispers. "I know."

It is one of the rare occasions when she sleeps at Baker Street.


	8. Chapter 8

**Dust in the Air**

 **by Flaignhan**

* * *

Autumn is starting to settle in. Swirling clouds block all but a few threads of sunshine, and a healthy breeze weaves its way through the air.

Rosie is awake and content in her pram, batting her mittened hands at the mobile hanging from the canopy. Molly pushes the buggy along the path, winding their way through Regent's Park. She doesn't suppose that Rosie appreciates any lof the scenery, but it's nice for them to get out all the same.

The change in the weather only serves to worsen Molly's mood - these past couple of weeks have been so draining, both physically and emotionally, and now the weather is teaming up with the rest of the universe, treating them more harshly than before.

There are a few puffa jacket clad toddlers waddling about next to parents or nannies, and the occasional jogger ambles past, breaths coming out in hefty gusts.

The fountains are up ahead, and Molly can't resist whipping out her phone, crouching down next to the pram, and angling the camera so she just about manages to get both Rosie and herself in shot, as well as the fountain in the background.

She pauses by the flowerbeds, with their neatly designed patterns of brightly coloured pansies. They're starting to look a little faded, but there's still enough life left in them for it not to be too depressing. Molly quickly uploads her photo onto Instagram, with a filter that hides the dark circles under her eyes, and few sentimental hashtags, then slips her phone back into her pocket and heads towards the boating lake.

No one is brave enough to venture out on the pedalos or row boats today, although she supposes that come the weekend there will be a handful of students larking about on the lake for the last time this year. There are groups of geese honking loudly as they cluster in groups around the edge of the lake, ruffling their brown feathers.

She continues walking, pushing Rosie's pram onwards. She can smell him before she can see him - she's downwind of him, and the faintest hint of his aftershave catches on the breeze. She stops and turns, and he's two steps behind, but soon the gap is closed.

"Hi," he says, but he's not looking at Molly. His eyes are fixed on Rosie, and there's a hint of relief on his face, as though he hadn't expected her to still be the same since he last saw her.

"You okay?" Molly asks, and she looks up at him, his hair fluttering in the breeze, coat collar turned down, though whether this is due to the fact that the weather isn't _so_ brutally cold yet, or the fact that Rosie's here, she's not entirely sure.

"Yeah," he says. He's lying of course, but she doesn't pull him up on it. It's the same 'yeah' she gives every time somebody asks her the same question.

Nothing's okay, and it won't be okay for a very long time. It might _never_ be okay, but at least they've got plenty of time to try and make it so.

Sherlock reaches into the pram, and brushes the back of his index finger against Rosie's hand. She closes her fist around it, and Molly's heart swells. He needs this, he needs it _so_ much. Sherlock has been knocked out of shape, his entire world shattered with one bullet. One petty pull of the trigger.

"D'you think she remembers me?"

"Of course," Molly says with a smile. "Of course she does."

"But babies - "

"You don't have to be cynical about your own godchild, Sherlock," Molly says, before he can spoil it for himself. "You _can_ just enjoy it."

He nods, and Rosie lets go of his finger, favouring the small felt animals bobbing above her head. Sherlock gives the mobile a gentle push with the tip of his finger, and it slowly rotates, earning a delighted giggle from Rosie.

"It won't be like this forever," Molly tells him, her voice soft. She gives him a gentle nudge with her shoulder and he looks across to her.

She can tell he doesn't believe her.

"You'll sort things out between the two of you, one way or another," she continues. "And once that's done, Rosie won't ever remember a time when you weren't around as much."

"You don't know that," he sighs.

"Yes I do," Molly says, and she finds his hand and gives it a squeeze. "I _do_."

It will happen, eventually, after time has passed and the dust has settled. Once John has worked his way through the hardest parts, once he's gotten the hang of juggling life as a single parent and a busy GP. It'll take time, but they'll come back to each other in the end. It's what best friends do.

"How did you find us?" Molly asks, releasing his hand and returning hers to the pram. She starts pushing Rosie along again, and Sherlock falls into step beside them.

"I was walking," he tells her. "Thinking. Recognised your coat."

Molly raises an eyebrow. "Is that code for _you got a notification from my Instagram_?"

"Don't be _ridiculous_ ," Sherlock snorts. "I don't have _Instagram_."

Molly smiles as she looks straight ahead. He's funny, especially when he's flustered. He's not nearly as good a liar as he thinks. "So you're definitely not that generic photography account that posts loads of shots of London and _somehow_ manages to make everywhere look like a crime scene?"

She glances across to him now, and he's frowning. He knows he's been caught red handed.

"It's just a cover," he tells her, offering a casual shrug. "Social media can be very revealing."

"And you can't follow private account with a username like _Consulting Detective_ , can you? You might be rumbled."

"I _have_ been rumbled," he says darkly. "By _you_."

"Oh well I won't tell," she promises. She's glad she's caught his attention with something else, glad that they can share something other than a silence hung with grief. Their words fall from their lips with an ease that there hasn't been since before _everything_ , and it's a relief to know that they're both still here, that tragedy hasn't wiped them out altogether.

They continue on quietly, the pram wheels rolling against the tarmac as they follow the curve of the path around the lake. It's nice to be with him in such a relaxed setting, and maybe they both needed this. Maybe taking things easy in a park on a quiet day is necessary to help them reset, and readapt.

"What d'you mean I make everywhere look like a crime scene?" he asks after a while, and it's clear her words have been playing on his mind. He probably still thinks they're mid-conversation, that his response hasn't come several minutes and a good quarter of a mile after they finished speaking.

"I don't know," Molly says, chewing on the inside of her lip as she casts her mind back to his sporadic posts. "I think they always look a bit dark and depressing, like something awful's happened." She steers the pram around a wayward child on a trike, and Sherlock veers with her. "They're very _you_ though," she tells him. "I mean, that's how I was certain it was you."

"You think I'm dark and depressing?"

That wasn't quite what she'd meant.

"Of course I don't," she says, her mind working fast to try and come up with an answer that won't come out the wrong way. "You're just not what I'd call a _..._ happy chappie." She knows how ridiculous the words sound as soon as they leave her mouth, and they must strike Sherlock in the same way, because when he turns to her, it's a with a look of amused disbelief, as if he's unsure that she even _exists_.

"Happy _chappie_?" he repeats. "Have you _completely_ lost your mind?"

"I said you're _not_ one," Molly replies, trying in vain to defend herself. Her phrasing is a step too far to be able to pull things back with any dignity now.

"Doesn't mean I'm depressing though," Sherlock counters, hands in the pockets of his coat.

" _Fine_ ," Molly says with huff. She looks out across the lake, hoping that a word will emerge from the water. Something appropriate, and not laughable. "Brooding, then," she says. "You're brooding."

He raises an eyebrow, but his opportunity to retort is broken by a wail from Rosie. They slow to a halt, and Molly clips the brake into place with her foot, before reaching into the pram to extract Rosie from under her blankets.

"D'you want to hold her?" she asks Sherlock, and after a moment he nods. Molly passes Rosie to him, and he holds her against his chest, tucking her underneath the folds of his coat. He rocks her gently, and whispers quiet soothing words that are lost in the breeze, and soon she starts to settle.

"Oh what a _lovely_ baby."

Molly looks towards the sound of the voice and sees an elderly lady, dressed in a lilac coat, large handbag swinging from the crook of her elbow.

"She's _beautiful_ ," the lady coos, her lips wrinkling as she speaks, causing vertical lines to appear in her lipstick.

"Oh, thank you," Molly says. She offers a brief smile, hoping that the exchange won't last. Sherlock is not designed for such situations, and given _everything_ , she can't be sure how volatile he is.

She doesn't need the old dear to suffer a cardiac arrest induced by rudeness. Not today.

The lady smiles, and asks, "How old is she?"

"About six months," Molly says, nodding, her mouth aching from forcing another smile.

"Six and a half," Sherlock corrects.

It's a real smile this time, and it feels foreign on her face. It's nice though, a welcome change, and her heart lifts at his correction.

" _Lovely_ ," the old dear says. "What's her name?"

"Rosie," Molly replies, and she can feel Sherlock's eyes on her, urging her to get them out of this terrible situation.

"Oh and she _is_ a little rose, isn't she?" The lady smiles at Rosie, who hides her face in Sherlock's coat, but it doesn't serve as a deterrent. "She's a shy one!"

"Quite," Sherlock replies, the word clipped and barely masking his impatience.

Perhaps she gets the hint, because she straightens up, and turns her smile to Molly. "I'll let you get on," she says. "She's really a very lovely baby." And then, as a late addition, "A lovely baby, for lovely parents!"

She beams, and then totters off, her pink rinse fluttering in the breeze.

Sherlock looks to Molly, then hands Rosie back, and Molly places her into the cot.

"I never want to experience that again," he says, and he looks over his shoulder, where the woman has waylaid another pram. "Why did she think _we_ were the parents?"

Molly frowns. "Because we're two adults with a baby?" she suggests. It seems fairly obvious to her, but maybe it's one of life's little mysteries to Sherlock. Reasoning why people put two and two together to get five is perhaps a bit beyond him.

"Well that's _stupid_ ," he says. "Nobody in this city looks after their own children if they can afford to have someone else do it."

Molly frowns at his cynicism, but then his voice softens and he adds, "Please don't be like _that_ when we're old."

She looks across to him, and she can't quite say what she wants to. The thought of them being old is one she has never been able to fathom, not once in over twenty years. They've only ever gotten old _er_. The idea of _old_ seems a long way off, almost like a dream that struggles to stay in the mind after waking, always just a little bit out of reach.

Old age, when they buried one of their friends just a week ago, when he has treated himself in the way that he has, seems very optimistic to say the least.

But there's Rosie to consider these days, and their roles as godparents have become all the more crucial. Even if Sherlock and John aren't on speaking terms at the moment, this will pass, and Sherlock will be a huge influence on Rosie as she grows up.

Maybe he's been thinking about that.

Or maybe it's too soon.

Molly starts pushing the pram again, and Sherlock walks beside her. From the corner of her eye she can see him scanning the horizon for any other baby adoring people of whom they might need to steer clear.

"How is he?" he asks at last.

"He's with the solicitor today," Molly replies. It's not an answer of any kind, but he nods all the same. "You know, sorting things out."

Sherlock nods again. There's nothing much to say after all.

"I think he knows, deep down," she continues. "But he's just lashing out, and he shouldn't but..."

"He's grieving."

"Yeah," she sighs. She doesn't like the idea that grieving gives John carte blanche to do as he pleases, but at the same time, he's so _so_ distraught, that she can't possibly tell him he needs to make up with his best friend.

It's not the priority right now.

They complete the circuit around the lake, and once they make it back to the start, Sherlock takes his phone out of his pocket.

"Five missed calls from Lestrade," he tells her. "Must be interesting."

He is devoid of enthusiasm.

His eyes scan a text and then he shrugs and slips his phone back into his pocket. "Better go and help I suppose," he says.

Molly nods, and he turns away, but immediately turns back, his coat fanning around his legs. "Will you, erm..." he closes his eyes, making small gestures with his left hand while his brain tries to pull all the words he needs into something that sounds roughly like a sentence. "I mean, I know you already _are_ looking after them," he opens his eyes and glances down at Rosie. "But you know...I _can't_ , right now."

"I will," she says, nodding, and she toes down the brake on the pram. She steps forward, raising onto her tiptoes and putting her arms around.

He returns the hug, and Molly inhales deeply, the scent of him a comfort, a familiar port in an eternal storm.

"It's not your fault," she whispers. He holds her a fraction tighter, his chest deflating as he releases a breath. "I'll remind you of that as many times as you need to hear it."

He swallows, and then says quietly, "You might be saying it for the rest of our lives."

"Then so be it," she replies, and she pulls away, sinking back down onto her heels. His mouth twitches at the corner and he leans forward, pressing a kiss to her cheek.

"Text me if..." he shrugs, not knowing how he wants the sentence to end, and so he gives up, and leaves it hanging in the air between them.

"Yeah," she says. "I'll see you soon."

"Yeah," he replies, his hands finding their way into his coat pockets. "See you soon."

He turns away and Molly steers Rosie's pram back towards home. When she checks her phone later, she sees that he has liked her photo under his fake account. It's enough to bring a small smile to her lips, and she opens up her messages and types a text to him, a reminder he can carry with him everywhere he goes.

 _It's not your fault_ x


	9. Chapter 9

**Dust in the Air**

 **by Flaignhan**

* * *

Stacey is around a lot.

A lot more than usual anyway.

Molly knows she's trying to keep her busy, keep her mind off things, and be around anyway because she knows that Molly would only ever ask in a crisis.

She doesn't get to see Rosie much.

Molly is working a lot, and John only has Rosie at the weekends, and he spends all his time with her. A weekend of brave faces drains him for the following week, but when Friday night rolls around, the circle begins once again.

"Don't you think it's a bit messed up though?" Stacey asks one evening. She jabs her fork into her chips and inspects the one she spears before popping it into her mouth.

"What?" Molly replies.

"Sending his daughter away like that. Her mum's just died, she needs her dad."

Molly's tried not to think about it. She's supported John in his decisions because no one, not her, not anybody else, can imagine what he must be going through. It's a very specific chain of events that have led to this point. There are no support groups, no forums where he can talk things through with people who have faced similar situations.

There's only grief. And after that, heartache. And after that, an abyss.

He's dangling from grief and heartache by a fraying thread. He could drop at any moment.

"His wife was _murdered_ ," Molly reminds her. "He's in shock."

"But what about Rosie?" Stacey asks, pressing the issue. "I think you should have a word. I know she won't understand what's going on, but she'll notice the absence of her mum, and now her dad too. She wakes up in the morning and sees some weird strangers who are going to be more familiar than her own dad soon enough."

"They're not strangers, they're John and Mary's friends," Molly sighs.

"They're not good enough friends to be godparents," Stacey retorts. She leans forward and grabs the ketchup, squirting a generous amount over her remaining chips.

Molly doesn't answer. They've been through this. She doesn't have the capacity, it wouldn't be fair on Mrs Hudson, and Sherlock is, well, he's Sherlock.

"How is he anyway? Have you spoken to him?" Stacey asks, evidently realising she'll get nowhere in her protestations.

"No," Molly says, knowing from the way Stacey says 'he' that the conversation has shifted to Sherlock. "I haven't, he's locked himself away."

She hasn't heard hide nor hair of him for weeks, and after the first few days, she had texted him to check he was okay. She'd received a fairly swift response that had not altogether allayed her concerns, but had certainly seemed a fair and honest reply.

 _About as fine as you are._

She hadn't been able to argue with that.

When it had stretched to a week, she had texted again.

 _D'you want me to come round? X_

The response had been a little slower this time, a few hours gap in which Molly had ummed and aahed about calling Mrs Hudson and getting her to check on him.

 _No don't worry, flat's a tip._

 _You can come here if you like? Can order something in? X_

Her reply had been fast, so fast that she'd managed to catch him while he was still in texting range.

 _Being a recluse. All's fine. Promise._

She'd let it go, because there had clearly been no convincing him. She couldn't blame him either. She'd jump at the chance to hole up for a week or two and not have to deal with people or work. Her annual leave allowance doesn't quite give her the same freedom as a freelance detective, and her new mortgage definitely does not permit taking any unpaid leave.

But at least she has the dead for company. They tend to steer clear of annoying questions.

She'd finished with a short and simple response, one that pings in his inbox fairly frequently.

 _Ok, text me if you need me x_

He never does.

She'd left him be for another week, immersed herself in work, kept her mind busy, and tried not to think about things too much. Her ability to ignore the little pulsing nag buried deep in the centre of her brain had increased substantially, to the point where it had only intruded at certain quiet moments.

She had texted him late on the Sunday afternoon, when the clouds had grown dark and the sun had slipped behind the rooftops.

 _Still alive? X_

 _Utterly invincible_

A smile had curved her lips, and she'd let out a slow breath. He'd been ticking by, taking some time and that had been fine. He'd needed to.

Her phone had buzzed again.

 _And you?_

It hadn't been quite the question he'd meant, but she'd known what he'd been asking.

 _Ok i spose x_

It had been the only (sort of) honest answer she could give. It must have done the job, because he hadn't pressed her. He'd left her be.

And she'd left him.

* * *

John is drinking.

A lot.

He never gets drunk. But he's always got a drink in hand when Molly pops by in the evenings.

He doesn't touch a drop on the weekends, but during the long lonely evenings, his whiskey tumbler is never far away.

She doesn't say anything, it's not really her place to. And, she supposes, it's a perfectly reasonable reaction. Yes, maybe it's a few more units a week than he ought to have, but it won't be forever. She knows that. Just to numb the pain until the worst is over.

She understands.

She very much understands.

He's still not talking much, and sometimes he'll disappear into the kitchen for just a little bit too long. She'll walk in to find him with his fist in his mouth, stifling his sobs, until she gently pulls his hand away from his mouth and he lets out raw noise, collapsing against her.

Her heart hurts for him. It sears with both her grief and his. She wonders if there will ever come a day where he is happy again.

She hopes so. She really, _really_ hopes so.

She wishes she could make it go faster, that they could whizz forward a few weeks, or months, to a point where he's able to cope.

He thinks he's letting Rosie down as well, he's certain of it. She can see it in his eyes every time he catches a glimpse of one of her toys, or some of her baby grows hanging on the radiator after a spin in the washing machine.

He had tried to justify himself to her, once, but she'd told him he didn't need to, that she understood.

The act of admitting he can't take care of his daughter right now is one of the bravest, hardest things he could do. And yes, he needs to get better, and he needs to step up and be a great dad, and he _will_ , she knows it. But he just needs to be able to breathe, to be able to learn to live without the love of his life.

It's better for Rosie, she thinks, maybe. She's in a house where she can be fussed over by smiling, happy faces, where the grief hasn't ripped through the home like a tornado, leaving hearts shattered at every turn.

Molly's sure she's getting spoiled rotten, and that's okay, for the time being.

Things just need to get back to normal.

The only problem is, she has no idea how they can get there.

So, for the time being, she makes frequent visits to John, and she hugs him while he cries, and they don't talk about anything at all.

It's all she knows how to do.

* * *

It's over a month before his next text dings on her phone. She takes one look at it and mutes the TV, sitting up straight, fear flooding her veins.

 _Need an ambulance_

She calls him back straight away, and he picks up, sounding a little groggy.

"Are you all right?" she asks, the words rushing out of her. "Sherlock, are you _all right_?"

"Fine," he says, and he's in bed. She can tell by the sound of his voice, that deeper, throatier tone.

"So you _don't_ need an ambulance?" she asks.

She hears the rustle of the duvet as he rolls over, and wonders if she ought to go over. He's being _slow_.

"Are you all _right_?" she asks again, the words forced through gritted teeth this time.

"Yeah," he says. "Sorry, I was asleep."

"You only just texted me," she says, and she takes her phone away from her ear to double check. She swipes his text to one side, and there is the time stamp, noting the arrival as being just a few minutes ago.

"Oh," he says. "Well I don't know what happened then. Maybe lost signal when I sent it."

It's a rare thing for him to not know, and her suspicions only grow.

"So you _don't_ need an ambulance?" she clarifies.

"Oh no I _do_ ," he says, and the tension in her increases, shooting up her spine like a crackle of electricity. "But in about two weeks. Maybe at around ten to twelve?"

"What?"

It's a game, and she doesn't get it, nor does she feel too inclined to play.

"I'm going to need an ambulance, two weeks' time, at about ten to - no, better make it five to, actually," he pauses for a moment, and she can hear him rub his hand over his face, "Can we say...eleven fifty-three?"

She's tempted to ask if it really needs to be that precise, but knowing him, he's got something all planned out in his head, and his request for eleven fifty-three is just another I dotted, or T crossed.

"Why d'you need an ambulance?" she asks, and given the lack of urgency on the matter, she lays back down again, hugging a scatter cushion against her chest.

"To prove a point," he replies.

"Well you'll have to hire it then," she tells him. "I can't use an emergency ambulance for a pre-booking."

"Fine," he says. "Sort it out, charge my account, you know my details."

"Fine," she sighs. "Text me the address and I'll get it all booked in." She skews her lips to one side, a frown forming on her face. "What point are you trying to prove, exactly?"

"Oh you know..." he says vaguely, and she hears him shift in the bed again, pulling the duvet up so that his voice echoes when he speaks.

"No I don't know," she replies, and she pops him on speakerphone, then places her phone on her chest, microphone pointing towards her mouth. "Are you about to do something stupid?"

"Never," he replies, but she's not convinced by the answer.

She waits in silence for him to elaborate, and she can tell he's stewing on the other end of the phone line. His breathing changes, just a little, after she stays quiet for too long, and there is no sound of movement, no duvet brushing against cotton shirt as he fidgets. He's completely still.

"Not stupid enough to kill me," he tells her. "But I'm sure if I told you, you'd try and foil my plans, so how about I _don't_ tell you, and you just trust me?"

It sounds like a terrible idea, and she says as much.

"D'you need me to come round?" she asks, although she knows in advance what the answer will be.

"No," he sighs. "Honestly. I'm fine, I just need to do this one thing, and then everything will be okay."

Her frown deepens, suspicion growing exponentially.

"What d'you mean everything will be okay?" she asks. He can't mean _everything_. He can't have holed himself up in his flat long enough to convince himself that he's got a masterplan to fix _everything_ , surely? Unless he's become particularly adept at bringing the dead back to life (and let's face it, he'd managed to bring _himself_ back to life - though admittedly, his two 'dead' years hadn't been quite as permanent as Mary's final destination) then she can't see how he can fix things.

"How's John?" he asks, in a swift change of subject that she cannot be bothered to argue. She knows she won't get a straight answer, not unless she goes round, and as it stands, she doubts he'd let her into the flat.

"Not good," she tells him. "Not really. But no worse than can be expected."

He's quiet for a moment, contemplating her words. "And Rosie? Is she still staying with...whoever?"

"Yeah," Molly says quietly. "But he has her on weekends."

He's quiet again, but Molly doesn't press him for conversation. In the silence, her heart starts to swell in her chest, and she realises just how much she needed to hear his voice, how the sleepy, croaky texture is something she's barely heard since she moved from her old flat.

He doesn't really stay with her anymore, except in extenuating circumstances.

"I've missed you," she tells him, and he pauses before he replies.

"Yeah," he says. "I've missed you too."

The words are like a balm to her heart - not healing, but soothing, covering the cracks and sores.

"Two weeks," he promises. "And things will start being okay again."

"I'm worried about you," she confesses. "All this, and then an ambulance." She lets out a sigh. "Doesn't sound good."

"You don't need to worry," he says. "It's just a stupid experiment, nothing more."

She wishes she could believe him, but then he changes the subject again, and she goes with the flow, because there is too much happening for her to dig too deeply to try and uncover any flaws in his reassurances.

They speak for hours, for the first time in weeks, and she remembers long phone calls in hazy summer holidays, the upstairs phone pulled into her bedroom, wire trailing along the floor, while her finger played with the coiled cord, phone pressed against her ear.

These days, he doesn't tell her about his A level chemistry projects, nor does he talk enthusiastically about any recent cases, but it's nice all the same.

She falls asleep to the sound of his voice, and when she wakes, in the early hours, her phone has run out of battery.


	10. Chapter 10

**Dust in the Air**

 **by Flaignhan**

* * *

As if _everything_ hasn't been enough, here they are again.

Back to square one.

"Is there even any point to me doing this?" She glares at him, hard, her gaze alight with fury, her skin prickling with piercing disappointment.

It's the one thing that hurts her most in the world, and he's doing it again. He's acting out, because life has had the audacity to be _hard_ , and so he grabs the nearest syringe, ties off a tourniquet, and starts pumping his fist until the vein bulges under the surface, ripe for poisoning.

He sits on the edge of the gurney, hunched over, forearms resting on his knees, hands clasped tightly together. He must be in want of another dose.

"There _is_ a reason," he mumbles, his words directed to the floor.

She lets out a humourless laugh. "Is that what you've told yourself?" she asks, and she throws out a hand to steady herself as the ambulance pulls away, the engine roaring with life.

"There is - "

"No Sherlock," she sighs. "You just look for the first excuse - the first opportunity, and then you're off again." She turns away from him, and opens one of the drawers, rooting around for a cannula.

At the very least he needs rehydrating.

She grabs a pair of surgical gloves and sits down on the stool, wheeling closer to him as she pulls them on.

"You lied to me," she says, detaching her words from her heart, just for now. She won't fall apart, she can't afford to, not when she's the only one still standing. "All those times I checked in on you, and you swore I didn't need to worry about you."

"I'm so-"

"Your kidneys are struggling," she says. She's not interested in apologies. Not now, not when they don't mean anything. "Too many toxins." She fixes him with a look, but he cannot hold her gaze for long. He looks away, his eyes landing on one of the laminated protocol posters instead.

Maybe he knows he's gone too far.

She takes his left hand, turning it over, palm down, so she can find an appropriate vein in the back of his hand.

"Kidneys?" he asks. She glances it up at him. In his drug addled state, this is news to him.

"Squeeze," she murmurs, and he does, squeezing her index and middle finger, the veins becoming slightly more pronounced. When he releases her, she tears open the packaging of the cannula, cleans the back of his hand, then inserts it smoothly.

He doesn't bat an eyelid.

Needles aren't new.

"Your shoelaces," she says, in answer to his question. "The bows."

It's high time he did a bit of thinking. He's clearly been avoiding logical thought for weeks.

She hooks him up to a bag of saline, and presses the buttons on the drip stand. They haven't got long, so she increases the flow - just a fraction more per second than she'd normally administer. It's not for long.

"What about them?" he asks, looking down at his feet. She hears a faint 'oh' of recognition and she doesn't bother elaborating. The bows are smaller, thus, the laces are looser, thus his feet are swollen, ergo _kidneys_.

She gets up and dumps the cannula packaging into the bin. Acid burns in her throat and she can't believe he's done this to himself. He's spiralled so quickly, and so terribly, he must have spent the past few weeks in a constant state of near overdose.

She blinks, shoving the thought from her mind, but then Sherlock brings it straight back with his next question.

"How long?"

She turns to face him, and she feels as though the energy has been drained from her. She can hardly bear to look at him, but she has to. She _must_. She needs to give him an estimate, a _conservative_ estimate, so there's still some hope in case he takes this nonsense even further.

"Weeks," she says. "At most. It depends on your kidneys. If they fail then..."

She doesn't need to tell him what will happen. He already knows.

She turns away and swallows the lump in her throat. She can feel the tears building in her eyes, and she holds on to the counter, the rumble of the engine keeping the silence at bay.

She sniffs, and a tear escapes, trickling down her cheek. She raises a gloved hand to her face to brush it away, the latex pulling gently at her skin. She peels the gloves off impatiently, and then she hears movement behind her. Sherlock's hand closes around her wrist, and he gently turns her round to face him.

She can sense something that might be guilt, buried deep in the back of his gaze, and he pulls her close, wrapping his arms around her. At first she resists, but then she caves, because _everything_ is too much, and this added on top is just the last straw.

She can't carry on like this. She _can't_.

She clutches the fabric of his shirt, and it feels grubby beneath her fingers. Despite this, she rests her head against his chest, reassuring herself with the sound of his heartbeat.

He's still here.

He's going to _stay_ here.

He'd talked about them getting old.

She tries to fight her tears with steady breathing; she's determined that there will only be one tiny smudge of eyeliner today, but it's no good.

Here they are again, after she finally thought he'd managed to pull himself together. But no, this is them, and it's the same old shit.

"Don't do this," he mumbles. "Not over me."

She looks up at him, her face stained with tears, and the sight of him doesn't comfort her. He's a wreck, and she can see the muscles pulling in his jaw, as he tries to keep himself from grinding his teeth.

His fix is wearing off.

"So we lose Mary and we're supposed to what, sit back and lose you too?" Her voice breaks, and she looks down. She's still clutching his sides, still hanging on, even after all this time.

"She _died_ saving you, and this is how you decide to respond? By killing yourself anyway?" Her words are small and soft, but when she looks up at him again, she can see the tug of his lower lip as his teeth pull against it.

He knows.

"What a stupid, _pointless_ waste." She shakes her head and goes to push him away, but he catches her hand, holding it tenderly in his.

"There's a good reason for this," he says. "I promise."

She shakes her head again. "No," she says. "No reason is good enough for this." She breathes in deeply, another attempt to keep herself together, but all she gets is the stench of stale sweat and the breath from a mouth which hasn't seen a toothbrush in weeks.

"John," he says. "John Watson."

"You think this is _helping him_?" she replies incredulously. "You think after he loses his wife, becomes a single dad, and is estranged from his best friend, that the best thing said best friend can do is go on a suicidal _binge_?"

He's lost it. Really and truly lost it. Any ounce of logic he once held dear has been flung out of the window, replaced only with thoughts of syringes and solutions.

Maybe this is it. Maybe she needs to call it quits. She can't keep going round and round in this same circle, if, whenever there's a problem he can't solve, and he shoots himself up into oblivion.

"Mary's idea," he says, and she looks back at him immediately. There is a glint in his eyes, and she can tell he knows he's got her.

"Mary's idea," she repeats, her tone heavy with scepticism.

It doesn't _sound_ like Mary's idea, and she wonders if it was a drug fuelled hallucination, if, in the middle of one of his highs, she had given him her blessing and said 'When that wears off, why don't you do a bit of cocaine, too?'

"The only way to save John, is to make him save you," he says, and then he blinks. " _Me_."

The ambulance takes a sharp corner, and Molly stumbles backwards. Sherlock catches her, one hand at the small of her back, holding her against him, while the other collides with the store cupboards behind her, his drip line hanging like a wire between two telegraph poles.

Her heart is pounding, and she lets out a breath, one hand resting against his chest.

She repeats his words in her head, _Mary's words_ , apparently.

Regrettably, it adds up.

"You didn't need to do it like this," she says. "You didn't need to _actually_ try and kill yourself."

"Yes I did," he says, and his hand is still at the small of her back; she can feel its warmth through the layers of her clothes, and the tremor he just can't shake off. She can taste his breath, and it's disgusting. The life of a junkie is the furthest thing from glamorous.

"If I'd just gotten into a bit of trouble, he'd expect me to smart arse my way out of it. But I can't do that with this, he knows it."

"Couldn't you have just..." she trails off, knowing that what she'd thought about saying goes against every principle she has as a doctor. And it would sound stupid to boot.

He waits for her to continue, his eyes boring into hers.

"Well, couldn't you just have gotten run over a bit?"

He raises an eyebrow and she rushes to clarify.

"You know, just a slow moving car, maybe a fracture or two, something that would put you in the hospital and sounds more serious than it is." The words fall out of her, stupid after stupid after stupid.

"That's not bad actually," he replies with a hint of approval. " _Sherlock's been hit by a car_ sounds pretty serious doesn't it?" He lets out a sigh. "Should've come to you sooner."

"Yeah," she says. "You should've."

"No," he says, after giving it a few moments of further thought. He shakes his head. "It had to be this. Nothing else would have worked."

"You keep telling yourself that," Molly replies, and she reaches behind herself, grabbing the counter as they bob over a speed bump.

"It's not just about him," Sherlock says. "What about Rosie? I'm her _godfather_ , I need to do right by her."

He's being serious, and Molly can't stop the laugh that escapes her.

"This? _This_ is your idea of being a responsible godfather?" She tries to move away from him again; she's finding it hard to look at him, to acknowledge the drug fuelled delusion in his eyes.

He really thinks this is a good idea.

Her hand is still in his, and though he's holding it gently, loosely, she feels like if she lets go, she'll lose him forever.

"Where is she?" Sherlock asks. "Where's Rosie?"

"With friends," Molly replies. "He can't cope at the moment."

"But she's not with me," Sherlock says, "And she's not with you. And unless Mrs Hudson's keeping her hidden under the kitchen sink then she's not with her either."

"Because putting a baby in the same house as a man who's pumping himself full of heroin would have been such a _bright_ idea, wouldn't it?" And then, before he can press the point of her any further, "And I work sixty hours a week, I can't look after her."

"But who _is_? What _friends_ has he given her to?"

"It's just temporary, while he tries to get things sorted," Molly says, but he's not getting the point. He's grown up with two loving parents and an older brother, and he's never had to look after anybody in his life. He can't even look after himself.

"Do you have any idea how hard it is? To be a parent? A new parent? Do you know how hard it is to be a _single_ parent? A widow?"

He doesn't have anything to say.

Sherlock Holmes knows a lot of things, but he knows absolutely nothing about any of that. He doesn't know a thing about ordinary lives - he has only ever been wrapped up in his own, extraordinary self.

"He's lost the love of his _life_ ," she says, and she doesn't know how much point there is trying to get through to him. His comedown's starting, his mind is elsewhere, but she'll try nonetheless. "He lost her to _murder_ , out of the blue, no warning at all. And amazingly enough, _astonishingly_ , it's destroyed him. And as a result, he doesn't think he's in a good enough place mentally, and emotionally, to be the best caregiver to his baby."

"But Mary would want - "

"Mary's not _here_ , Sherlock. That's the problem."

He flinches at her words, but he needs to be reminded, he needs to understand that the world is worse without Mary, and that her death, rather than being a pebble hitting a lake, the effects rippling outwards, has for John, been like a meteorite hitting a puddle.

"She would have wanted to be here," she says, more gently now. She smoothes the collar of his shirt, damp with days (weeks?) of sweat. "She would have wanted to be here with John, to raise their daughter together. So what you think she would have wanted, now she's gone, is completely null and void. The rest of us have to work out how to function without her, and for John that's..."

Sherlock's eyes are bright, and he swallows hard, looking away from her.

"I'm sorry," she tells him. "But you need to come back to reality."

"This is working though," he tells her, his voice cracking. He wipes roughly at his nose, then looks down at her. "It _is_ working."

Molly shakes her head. "It's stupid," she says. "It's a death wish."

"It's about to get stupider," he says, and Molly can feel the ambulance start to slow.

"Don't you dare..." she can't finish the sentence, cannot face that possibility, not now, not today, not _ever_.

"Couple of days, max," he says, and he presses a kiss to her forehead, as though he thinks this will give him a free pass to do whatever he wants for the next forty-eight hours. "I promise."

Molly can feel tears prickling at her eyes again. Even like this, even in this god awful state, she still can't contemplate a world without him. It's not an option.

"I'm sorry," he says.

"You're always sorry."

"I know." He says, and he brushes her fringe back from her face, his touch delicate, if a little shaky. "I like it by the way. I never said."

She frowns. "Like what?"

"This," he gestures to her fringe. "I didn't say when you got it cut in, but I like it."

She narrows her eyes at him. "Are you trying to win me over? Get my blessing?"

He lets out a short, breathy laugh, and Molly's nose twitches at the odour.

"God no," he says, and his hand comes to rest on her shoulder, thumb grazing against the side of her neck. "I know that's impossible."

"Then what?" she asks.

"I _do_ like it," he says. "But also maybe I'm trying to change the subject."

A smile pulls at the corner of her mouth before she can stop it, and she hates herself for it, for that silent approval she gives him, just because he can catch her off guard.

Just because he can make her smile when the world is too much, it doesn't mean he gets to do what he wants.

"My breath stinks, doesn't it?"

"Yeah," she says, glad that he's finally realised. "D'you want a mint? I think I've got some in my bag."

He moves away from her, and the assault on her nostrils lessens immediately. "Molly, I've strived for realism these past weeks. Do you honestly think I'm prepared to ruin that now with a _mint_?"

She rolls her eyes, and moves towards the gurney, picking up his discarded dressing gown and folding it up.

"I'll take this home," she says, and then she gives it a tentative sniff, but pulls away immediately. "And I'll put it on a hot wash."

She places it on the counter, and there is a clunk of something hard. She frowns, and looks towards him, his mouth open a fraction, then she finds the pocket amongst the folds, reaches in, and pulls out a silver bangle.

If nothing else, it confirms the binge was entirely premeditated.

She feels like an idiot for not noticing its absence. Maybe she should keep it on a hook on the wall in her bedroom, and every time it disappears, it should serve as an alarm, a call to arms, as it were.

She's been wearing her beaded bracelet recently, the bangle forgotten and abandoned in favour of something newer.

"Can I have it?" he asks. "Until this is over?"

She holds it out to him and he takes it, picks up his coat, and slips it into the pocket.

Here they are again.

"Can you be angry with me?" he asks tentatively. "In front of John?"

Everything's a game.

"He won't believe it's real if you're not angry with me."

She closes her eyes and turns away. She can't lie to John, she just can't do that. She's not angry, not really. She's upset, more than anything else. Devastated, even, that he would consider this to be a great idea, that he would do this to try and help his grieving friend.

That he thinks this is the epitome of being a good godfather.

"This might help," he says. "Needs an update though."

There's a rustle of paper, and he draws closer to her, his fingers plucking a pen from the pocket of her lab coat. He moves her pony tail so it falls over her left shoulder, then leans against her, using her back as a makeshift writing desk. She can feel the point of the biro, scrawling across the paper, his left hand spread wide to hold the paper still.

"There's a perfectly good counter," she says. "You can always use that."

He ignores her and continues writing, and after a few moments, he is done. She turns around, and he hands her his list, which, to her horror, continues onto the second side of the page.

"Jesus Christ," she breathes. "You're even more of an idiot than I thought."

He shrugs, and then leans across to see the list. He points to a dangerous cocktail, taken a few days ago, according to the scribbled date next to it. "Not really," he tells her. "That felt _fantastic_."

She shoves him away, knowing that he's just trying to get a rise out of her, to jab at her temper with a stick before they face John.

The ambulance finally stops, the handbrake cranks into place, and Sherlock sits down on the gurney, swinging his legs up onto it, and reclining back onto the mattress. He closes his eyes, his emaciated frame all the more apparent now he's lying still.

She can't take it, and so she opens the back doors of the ambulance, breathes in the fresh air, and sits on the floor, her shoes brushing against the concrete.

She undoes the top button of her shirt, fanning the material to try and cool herself down. Twenty minutes in a stuffy ambulance with a sweaty junkie is not how she'd wished to spend her morning.

She stares ahead, hands clasped in her lap.

Two days. She will give him two days. After that, she tells John.

Her heart is screaming at her to tell him straight away, to let him know what his best friend is doing in an attempt to try and drag him towards readjustment.

But the little voice in her head, the one that always sounds irritatingly like him, reminds her that there's actually a disappointingly strong possibility that this might work.

And that's the hardest part to swallow.

After she has shouted at him in front of John, Sherlock's flippancy enough to stoke her temper, after he has assessed her with sharp eyes and announced his concern for her, Sherlock walks away with Culverton Smith and his gaggle of reporters. He turns back and fixes her with a piercing look.

Molly's breath catches, and she wants to say something, but her words vanish on their way to her mouth.

She has the horrible feeling that for once, he can see right through her.


	11. Chapter 11

**Dust in the Air**

 **by Flaignhan**

* * *

At least it's over.

He's survived to fight another day.

Cake is a welcome idea, after _everything_. A little hint of happiness breaking through the clouds. He's just about managed to scrape his way through to another year, which is something to celebrate.

She smiles on the tube, as she heads south. He's going to hate his present. And she couldn't be happier about that fact.

When she arrives, Sherlock and John are already sitting at a round table in the far corner, away from chirpy tourists towards the front of the cafe. She walks past the glass counter, trying to ignore the enormous slices of cake, and joins them at the table.

Sherlock narrows his eyes.

"Really?"

She looks up at the balloon, bobbing by the side of her head, the words 'Happy Birthday Sherlock' written on the front of it in silver glitter. This particular addition has made her a few minutes late, but it's totally worth it, just to see his grimace.

"I thought it was nice," she says, and she jabs at the balloon with her finger, sending it towards Sherlock's face. He recoils, but not fast enough, because a few dozen grains of glitter land on the sleeves of his coat.

"Are you punishing me?" he asks, and John sniggers, then takes a sip of his tea.

It's the first time she's heard anything like a laugh from him in months.

"Here's your present," Molly says, ignoring Sherlock's question. She places the gift bag on the table and shrugs off her coat, hanging it on the back of her chair before she sits down. There's an empty cup waiting for her, and John pours some tea into it while Molly plucks a menu from the stand to peruse the options.

Sherlock takes his present and card from the bag and sets them down on the table, then places the bag at his feet. He eyes the present suspiciously, then slowly tears at the paper.

Molly's having trouble deciding between carrot cake and chocolate cake. It's a tough call.

The wrapping paper is screwed up and dumped into the bottom of the gift bag, and she can feel Sherlock's eyes on her. A loud laugh escapes John, and this is followed by a heavy sigh from Sherlock, which manages to reach her side of the table. She's relieved to note that he has picked up a toothbrush since their ambulance ride.

"That should keep you occupied for a bit," she says, glancing over to the box.

She thinks the chocolate cake might be best. Warm, with a scoop of ice cream on the side.

"Two and a half thousand pieces," John says, leaning across to have a good look at the jigsaw puzzle. "Every single one of them black." He sniggers. "That's a great present. Where on Earth did you pick that up?"

"The internet," Molly tells him with a beaming smile.

"So you knew, did you?" John asks, curiosity piquing in his expression.

"Knew what?" Molly asks.

"His birthday. You knew it was his birthday," John explains.

"No John," Sherlock says as he picks up his birthday card. "She's known me for over twenty years, has access to all my medical records, and is my registered next of kin, but no, she has no _idea_ when my birthday is." He tugs at the flap of the envelope, tearing it as he shakes his head with impatience.

He doesn't like talking about his birthday.

Molly frowns, his words clicking in her head. "Since when have I been your next of kin?"

He lowers the birthday card, his index finger and thumb tucked inside the envelope, ready to pull it out.

"Since..." he looks down at his hands. "Since you know," he takes his hand away from the envelope and scratches the back of his head. Molly knows what he's getting at. "I had to fill in some forms when I..." he lets out a heavy breath. "When I went away for a bit."

"What forms d'you fill out when you fake your own death?" John asks, a ghost of a smile at his lips. "I had no idea there was an administrative process in place for _that_."

Molly shakes her head minutely, and John frowns, but lets the subject drop. He takes a long drink of his tea, then tops up Sherlock's cup, followed by his own.

Molly reaches into her bag and finds her phone. She sends a quick text, and John's phone buzzes in his pocket.

 _Rehab_ _._ _X_

He slips his phone back into his pocket, his eyes meeting hers. He gives the faintest of nods, unnoticed by Sherlock, who has decided to finally tug his birthday card out of its envelope. He opens it, and foil confetti slides out of it and onto the table.

"I'm _sorry_ ," he says through gritted teeth, his eyes on hers. "I'm sorry for _everything_. I'm sorry for the drugs, I'm sorry for not telling you, and I'm sorry for letting you down _again_."

"I know," Molly says, and she reaches across the table, covering his hand with hers, confetti pressing into the underside of her wrist. "But we never get to do anything on your birthday, so I thought I'd better squeeze a whole party in."

Before he can argue any further, or throw a filthy look in the direction of John's smirk, the waitress comes over to take their order. John goes for the lemon and poppyseed, Sherlock for _two_ slices of red velvet, and Molly changes her mind at the last moment and goes for the carrot cake.

"Lovely," the waitress says. "And can I get you another pot of tea?"

"Yeah, that'd be great, thanks," John says.

"Would we like a candle in the cake for the birthday boy?" she asks, a bright smile on her face.

" _Yes_ ," John says. "Yes we would."

"No we _wouldn't_ ," Sherlock argues, and he looks up at the waitress, shaking his head.

"No he would," John says, and he gives the waitress a thumbs up and a nod. "Thank you very much."

The waitress disappears with their empty teapot before the argument can continue any further, and it soon becomes apparent that she has a devious streak about her.

The cake comes, Molly's and John's first, brought out by a teenager, maybe one young enough to just be on work experience. Then she turns around and heads back to the counter, and returns with Sherlock's double helping of red velvet cake, her hand cupping the flame of a solitary candle sticking out the top.

"Happy birthday," she says shyly as she sets it down in front of him.

She's so young, and so timid, that even Sherlock can't bring himself to complain.

"Thank you," he says, and the girl smiles and trots back towards the counter. Sherlock extinguishes the candle with his finger and thumb, then pulls it out of the cake and flings it towards John.

"Happy birthday mate," John says, before he tucks into his cake, scooping a large forkful into his mouth.

It's nice, a little piece of slightly surreal normality, and maybe it's what they need in order to reset.

* * *

He has a shower when they get back to Baker Street. His body is constantly sweating out his sins, and when he reappears, clad in his pyjamas, his hair roughly towel dried, Molly settles herself down on the rug, and opens the box containing his puzzle.

"You're not serious, are you?"

"Well I'm not going to just sit here and watch you sweat all night," she tells him, and she tears open the plastic bag containing the pieces, and pours them into the bottom of the box.

"I can think of at least twenty-five _other things_ we could do."

"Such as?"

For someone with twenty-five options, he spends a little too long looking stumped by the question.

"We could...watch rubbish TV." He shrugs, then when she doesn't reply, sits down next to her, and starts helping to sort the pieces.

"You can put the telly on in the background if you like," she says, and he twists around, reaching up to his desk and grasping around for the remote.

After much flicking through the channels, he settles on a marathon of _Homes Under the Hammer_ , and they spend the next hour and a half sorting through the puzzle pieces, and making wild guesses at property prices in various parts of the country from 2007.

She's slightly better at it than he is. It's one of the few guessing games where she comes out on top.

The work on the border of the jigsaw isn't too bad, and Sherlock squints at each piece, analysing the texture of the print to work out which side it ought to be on. It does, admittedly, speed up the process, even if it does take the fun out of it a bit.

She doesn't know how they're actually supposed to tackle the inside pieces, and now she's here, living it herself, she realises that it's a terrible idea. They're just relying on pot luck, that they might pick two pieces out and they might fit together.

It's not a puzzle to be solved, it's a never ending game of chance.

Sherlock goes to make some tea, apparently needing a break before he can contemplate the pointless drudgery of the rest of the puzzle. He clatters about in the kitchen, opening and closing the fridge several times, looking for food that isn't there.

"D'you want me to order something?" Molly asks.

He shakes his head, and ends up rooting out a packet of digestives from the back of the cupboard.

His phone blips, a text alert, and he looks over.

"Who is it?" he asks, before cramming a biscuit into his mouth.

Molly leans forward and picks his phone up, looking at the notification on his screen.

"It's Greg," she says. "Wants to know if you're okay."

He pulls a face. "Tell him I'm fine," he says with a wave of his hand, and he leans against the counter, waiting for the kettle to boil.

Molly presses her thumb against the home button and waits for it to recognise her print, then she opens up his messages.

At first she's confused - it's not Greg's text, but then she realises it's the last text he's looked at.

Her stomach plummets as the words burn into her eyes.

 _Happy birthday. Let's have dinner_.

The kettle clicks off the boil, and she looks up at him. For him there is a moment of realisation, and the little colour in his face drains.

"She texts me sometimes," he says, glancing down at the floor and then back up again. "Special occasions, that sort of thing."

"It's your business," she says, and she presses the back button, then clicks onto Greg's message trail.

"Molly - "

"It's _your_ business," she repeats, and she types the message to Greg with thumbs that are a little more shaky than she'd like.

 _He's fine. He's had cake, he's making tea, he'll be ok. M x_

She locks his phone and places it back on the rug, her insides squirming. She'd had no idea they still spoke to one another. Even though the bulk of the texts had come from _her_ , she had glimpsed the tail end of one blue speech bubble, signed off with a _\- SH_.

She concentrates on the puzzle, and whether by dumb luck or perseverance, she doesn't know, but she manages to fit a few pieces together, as does Sherlock.

They stop guessing the prices on _Homes Under the Hammer_ and eventually the episodes end, and old editions of _Jamie's Kitchen_ start playing instead.

When the clock ticks around to half past eleven, Molly can stifle her yawns no longer.

"Go to bed," he says, his hand raking through puzzle pieces. "I'll come in in a bit."

Molly hesitates. She shouldn't really leave him on his own.

Not really.

"I will," he says, "I promise, I'm just going to find a few more pieces."

Molly gets up, and looks at the scattered groups of jigsaw pieces, clicked together and placed at random within the confines of the jigsaw border.

"All right," she says. "Don't stay up too late though, you need rest."

He nods, and as Molly walks past him, he catches her hand in his. She looks down, expecting him to say something, but apparently he doesn't have any words, and after a moment he releases her.

She heads into his bedroom, changes into her pyjamas, and switches out the light. She curls up under the duvet, pulling it up and over her shoulders, burrowing her face into the pillow.

She tries not to think about the text, tries not to think about what he might text her back, or how often. She wonders if he's seen her since, or if this is a purely textual affair. Possibilities race around and around in her head, pangs of jealousy stabbing at her heart.

But it's not her business.

If she could stop thinking about it, she would.

It's only a quarter of an hour before she hears the door swing open. There is the soft sound of silk against cotton as he shrugs off his dressing gown and hangs it on the back of the door. He climbs into bed, and Molly knows there is no point in pretending to be asleep.

"I only text her back when I'm bored," he says, his words soft in the darkness, directed towards the ceiling. "She texts, and when I'm bored, I text her back. I've not texted her for...well, for a while. Not with everything..."

"It's not my business," she mumbles, her voice muffled by the pillow. "You can text who you want."

A quiet sigh escapes him, and the bed shifts as he rolls onto his side and moves closer to her. His hand grazes against the top of her arm and she closes her eyes.

She has to get up for work in the morning.

He moves closer still, his arm hooking around her, and he lifts his head so he can press a single kiss to her jaw.

It doesn't make the squirming go away, but she does find it easier to fall asleep.

She always does, with him.


	12. Chapter 12

**Dust in the Air**

 **by Flaignhan**

* * *

It's the short one who answers the door. He has a baby resting on his hip, and Rosie is just as cute as the pictures, if not cuter.

But she's not here for that.

"Oh," John says. "Come in, come in."

Stacey steps into the lounge, and John grabs the chair tucked under the table, lifting it with one hand and plonking it down next to the two armchairs. He gestures for her to sit down, and Stacey does.

But, she leaves the rickety old chair for Sherlock, and settles herself in the squashy leather armchair.

"Oh no, not in that one, that's Sherlock's seat, he'll be out in a minute."

Stacey smiles, because the charm offensive is always her best weapon, and John opens and closes his mouth. With her not saying anything, he can't argue back.

"Sherlock?" he calls, angling his head towards the hallway. "Client."

Stacey rolls her eyes and settles back in the chair, fingers tapping against the arm as she waits.

This is going to be hugely enjoyable, even if she does have her serious face on today. She's also got her mental knuckleduster ready for use, but she hopes it won't be necessary. Sort of hopes, anyway.

The bathroom door slams and Stacey can hear his feet slapping against the floorboards as he heads back towards the lounge. He peers around the corner, eyes narrowed, but his expression drops when he sees her, before he pulls himself together and scowls at her.

He steps into the lounge, and Stacey looks down at his bare feet, black and blue around the gaps between his toes, bruises refreshed again and again.

It'll take months for them to go.

"That's my chair," he says, and he points to the rickety old seat that John placed between the armchairs.

"I'm not a client," Stacey tells him. She can feel John's eyes on her, and he has no idea who she is. She has been a part of Sherlock and Molly's bubble for _years_ , before John had ever even been deployed to the Middle East, and she's kept her place. Until now.

"That's still my seat," Sherlock argues, and he reaches forward, taking Stacey by the wrist and hauling her up.

She tries to stay in her seat, clenches her muscles in an attempt to make herself more difficult to shift, but for a junkie he's surprisingly strong.

He must be itching for a fix.

"What's going on?" John asks, his eyebrows drawn together in a deep frown. Rosie bats a hand at his jumper, but the gesture goes ignored. "Who _are_ you?"

"This is Stacey," Sherlock says, before she has a chance to introduce herself. His eyes are fixed on hers, his hand still clasped around her wrist. She has the distinct sense that he is trying to read her mind.

"She's here to shout at me," he continues. "Probably something to do with drugs."

"And the fact that you're a selfish bastard. That makes up a majority of the shouting." Her eyes are dry from her refusal to blink, and she wants him to break first. He will, she's certain. She can one-up the drug addict in the staring contest, easy peasy.

John sniggers. "Well, I'll leave you to it then, sounds like a long conversation."

"I'm Molly's friend," Stacey tells John. "Seeing as the smackhead here has failed to introduce me _properly_." She grits her teeth, focusing on not breaking the stare. She's here for Molly, not for herself. She can cope with a little bit of discomfort. Or a lot. It's definitely a lot.

"Is she all right?" John asks, his humour vanishing, face creasing with concern. "Is she okay?"

"She's fine," Sherlock says, and his eyelid twitches, briefly covering the top section of his bloodshot iris. "She texted me this morning."

"Oh well, she must be a-okay if she's still got both _thumbs_ ," Stacey retorts. She's about to give up, brush things off with a witty comment or some sort of drug related insult thrown in Sherlock's direction, but then his grip on her wrist falters, and she knows she can hold it, just that little bit longer.

"Amazingly, Stacey is a _doctor_ ," Sherlock says, turning to face John and dropping Stacey's wrist. She smirks, and then blinks, rapidly.

She's not sure whether the blinking feels best, or the victory. Either way, she's thrilled.

"Oh right," John says, repositioning Rosie on his hip. "Well, he likes doctors." He offers a smile, but he's edging towards the door, sensing the ensuing argument.

"I know he does," Stacey says, raising her eyebrows cheekily. She earns a smile from John, but Rosie is not quite at the appreciative audience stage yet, and so she gurgles, and then rests her head against John's chest.

"You're labouring under the delusion that I like _her_ ," Sherlock says, and he stalks towards the kitchen, snatches the kettle from its stand, and fills it with water.

"He _does_ like me," Stacey says in a hushed voice. "He's just confused. Must be all the heroin."

Sherlock throws her a filthy look, and slams two cups down onto the counter as the kettle begins to boil.

He likes her well enough to make her tea then.

John's noticed too, because a smile tugs at his lips. She's not sure about John, because he's lived with him so has undoubtedly seen more of him, but it's the first time Stacey has ever seen Sherlock boil a kettle. She wonders if Molly has ever witnessed such a miracle, and she makes a mental note to ask her later.

"I'm leaving Rosie with Mrs Hudson," John says. "Got an appointment with my..." he trails off, and Sherlock turns his head, craning his neck so he can see him. There's a moment's pause, in which Stacey supposes that John's appointment is either with an STD clinic or a therapist, and then Sherlock nods, apparently coming to an accurate conclusion.

"See you later," he says, and then he turns to Stacey. "You're not allowed to shout too loud, there's a baby in the house."

"I'm sure I can still make my feelings known."

John takes the stony silence as an opportunity to disappear, raising his hand in farewell to Stacey while Sherlock opens the fridge door to get the milk and slams it again, giving it a kick with his heel for good measure as he walks away.

"Sugar?" he asks stiffly.

"No thanks, _honey_."

He gives her a cold look, and Stacey is certain that he doesn't have to put up with this kind of nonsense from Molly. The nonsense that Molly has to deal with however... Well, that's why she's here.

She has the good grace to wait until tea is served before she begins, but she takes Sherlock's seat again, before he has the chance to nip into it ahead of her.

He gives her a dirty look, but gives her her tea anyway, and rather than taking John's chair, or the rickety chair intended for clients, he paces back and forth in front of the fireplace, teacup rattling in its saucer.

"She's burning out, Sherlock." Stacey's serious now, all the jokes and insults out of her system. Now it's time for some real talk.

"Well she doesn't have to babysit me," Sherlock mutters.

"Oh don't be _ridiculous_ ," Stacey snaps. "Of course she does. Every time you make a mess of yourself you end up snotting all over her lab coat, telling her you're sorry, that it won't happen again, and she gives you chance after chance after chance, and still, every time you let her down, she _always_ picks you back up."

He has the look of a sulky teenager about him, the sort of look that is very familiar from her uni days, if she dared to ask Sherlock to hang his jacket up instead of leaving it sprawled over the sofa. She knows that look well. But he's an adult now, it doesn't fly. Not with her.

"She will _never_ abandon you," Stacey continues. "But you have to realise what you're doing to her."

" _What_ am I doing to her?" Sherlock asks haughtily. "What exactly has changed from last time?" He sips his tea, hands shaking with the comedown, and he fixes her with a bloodshot gaze.

He thinks he's got her in a corner.

"Nothing," Stacey replies, and she sinks back in his chair, her hand waving dismissively towards him. "Twenty years and nothing's changed."

"I've got a new dressing gown," he quips, and Stacey almost wants to smile. But not now. There will be other times to smile.

"Sherlock, you can measure it in _decades_. Can't you just quit? Properly? You're not Keith Richards, you're not immune."

His eyebrows twitch at the reference, and it flies straight over his head. She doesn't know how to get through to him.

"She's given you so much, and you always take take take, without hesitation." Stacey shakes her head and looks towards the empty fireplace. In her peripheral vision, she sees something change in his expression, an acknowledgement of his bad behaviour perhaps.

"What could she need from me?" Sherlock asks, his tone measured, controlled, each syllable carefully crafted.

A shag, is the first thing that comes to Stacey's mind. Sobriety is second, which is odd, given that that's really the most pressing issue.

Possibly.

"You need to be better to her," Stacey says, and now it's _her_ choosing her words carefully. "There will come a day when she needs you and my _god_ , you'd better be there. You'd better give her everything she needs, and when she needs you, you'd better be there without anyone having to _tell you to._ "

"Is there something specific you're alluding to, or are you just foreseeing some sort of crisis in order to validate your point?"

"Just go round there," Stacey sighs, her patience wearing thin. "Just go round and hang out with her! Go and be there for her! Ask her how she is!"

His eyes flash at Stacey's words.

"How is she?"

" _You_ need to ask _her_ ," Stacey says, and she's sticking to her guns. He really is an utter imbecile. He doesn't need a shove in the right direction, but rather a bloody catapult to send him smashing through her window. "She's a twenty minute walk away, it's _not_ difficult!"

"I don't really like her new flat," he says, scrunching his nose.

Stacey waits, to see if there is a valid point coming, but Sherlock takes a sip of his tea instead, then places his cup on the mantelpiece.

"Sorry," Stacey says, leaning forward. "Is that an _excuse_?"

"Well," he says with a shrug. "There was nothing wrong with the old flat, was there?"

Stacey stands up. She cannot believe what she's hearing. It's pure nonsense. Utter, utter nonsense. It doesn't have any relevance, and yet he's using it as a distraction. It's conversational slight of hand, to try and get her to talk about the fact that Molly has a garden now, and doesn't have neighbours on five sides anymore. It's meant to pull her away from her point; that he's not being decent to the person that has hauled him through his addiction and kept him alive for the past twenty odd years.

"That's not relevant." Stacey's voice is chilly, and she fixes Sherlock with an icy stare until he manages to find something to say.

"I always went to her place for the comedown, to get better."

"And was it the altitude that helped, or was it _her_? Call me crazy, but I don't think being on the fourteenth floor ever had _much_ of an impact on your recovery, however temporary it might have been."

He glares at her, and apparently she does not understand the complex nature of addiction. Apparently, she doesn't realise that it's nothing to do with the people who love you, and everything to do with the fact that they live in an ex-council flat in a high rise block.

Or maybe he's just upset because she's made so much progress, and after twenty odd years he's still the same whinging addict, who can't say no to a needle.

"It was the first place I went after rehab," he mumbles. "It was home."

Stacey pauses; she has a feeling that the old flat means a bit more to him than he's ever admitted. In times of trouble, people come to 221B. They come, and they sit in that old chair, and Sherlock and John hear them out, and decide whether they want to help them.

But where does the inhabitant of 221B go, when all feels as though it's lost?

"The new flat can become home too," she says gently. "You just need to spend some time there."

He scrunches his nose. "It's too..."

"What?"

" _Nice_."

Stacey sighs. "She's worked really hard for it," she tells him. "Don't make her regret it."

He looks down at his bruised feet, hands dug deep in the pockets of his dressing gown.

"Home is wherever she chooses to love you."

He glances at her, and she thinks for a second, she may have cracked the surface, she may have wormed her way into his brain, and her words will stay with him long after she leaves. Maybe, just maybe, he might head over to Molly's, ask her how she is, and _listen_ to the answer.

There's a knock at the front door, and Sherlock's eyes shoot over to the window. He walks towards it, peering down to the pavement, then turns around.

" _Real_ clients," he sighs, he grips his hair for a moment, then breathes deeply, and shrugs off his dressing gown. "Can you let them in? I need to put some shoes on."

Stacey scowls. She's not here to help him hide his sins, nor is she here to be his assistant. But she'll help just this once. Just in case he might actually listen to her.

She heads down the stairs and opens the door, to find a portly husband, with a rather fed up looking wife. She leads them upstairs, fetches an additional chair from the dining table, and places it next to the one that was meant for her.

They sit down, and Stacey takes Sherlock's chair once more. She steeples her fingers, elbows resting on the arms of the chair, as she has seen him do so many times at Molly's place over the years. She fights to keep a straight face, eyes slightly narrowed, and when Sherlock reappears, he looks startlingly presentable. His eyes linger on her as he walks into the room, and she knows he's not impressed. He doesn't say a word, however, nor does he sit in John's chair. Instead he waits by the fireplace, the look of displeasure on his face increasing, as though he can't believe he put on a jacket for _this_.

Stacey isn't sure what the protocol is, when some middle aged half wit claims his wife is channeling Satan, but she's quite sure she's not supposed to laugh. It's difficult, but she manages to keep a grip on herself, lips pressed together, with the occasional wobble whenever his protests become _too_ stupid.

It's less than three minutes before Sherlock has thrown them out of the flat.

"What a _waste_ of time," Sherlock hisses, pacing back and forth across the lounge. "Have people gotten stupider, or is it just me?"

"I can't speak for _people_ , but you've _definitely_ gotten stupider."

He inhales, a barbed retort ready, but it dies in his throat. His eyes are fixed on something, and he steps forward, reaching behind a set of drawers to pick up a piece of paper.

It's as though he's found the Holy Grail. He brushes the dust from it, and he's transfixed, utterly enchanted by a single sheet of notepaper.

"What is it?" Stacey asks. She gets out of his chair, and heads towards him. _It_ is messy handwriting and a splatter of blood.

"She _was_ real," he breathes, and then he lifts the paper to his nose, inhaling. His nostrils twitch, and he shakes his head, then breathes in again, as though he's searching for something that's just out of reach.

He holds it in front of Stacey's nose, and she gives it a tentative sniff. Apart from the lingering smell of dust, there's something, something that smells a bit like cooking, but a bit more chemical, something she can't quite put her finger on.

She's amazed he can smell it at all, given the endless packets of cigarettes she's seen him chain smoke in the past. Perhaps the ones she bummed off of him have helped preserve his senses.

She'll remind him of that next time.

"Linseed oil?" he asks, voice quiet.

Stacey shrugs, and then he's off, darting into the kitchen, switching out the lights, hunting through the drawers until he finds what he's looking for.

There's a blue glow, and Stacey realises he was searching for a blacklight. She heads over to the kitchen, to see what the fuss is about, and there is a message illuminated by the light, scrawled with a fingertip.

 _Miss me?_

She's not sure how he does it, but the room changes immediately, a tension fills the air and her breath feels sharper in her lungs. Maybe it's in the way his shoulders stiffen, or the sudden intake of breath. Maybe it's because the lights are out and there's a creepy, threatening, glow in the dark message on a bloodstained piece of paper.

Either way, Stacey's skin prickles uncomfortably, and she swallows the lump in her throat. Her mind flashes back, to her trash telly marathon being interrupted by a pale face, with jet black hair, and a mouth that moved like a ventriloquist's puppet.

"Moriarty?" she asks, her voice hushed.

Sherlock clicks the blacklight off and throws it back into the kitchen drawer, slamming it shut.

"He's dead," he says, through gritted teeth. "He's _dead_."

He moves past her, knocking her into the cabinets when his shoulder catches her. She lets him off, just this once, because his movements are tight with worry, his jaw set. He grabs his phone and unlocks it, and paces around the flat, apparently not knowing who to call first.

She's never seen him worried. It's always Molly who has overflowed with anxiety, who has tensed up and bottled up and shut up, but now Sherlock is letting out shaky breaths, raising his phone to type a text message and then deleting it, his arm dropping back to his side. He grips his hair, knuckles popping under the skin, his face even paler than usual.

He's scared.

Actually scared.

The dead man can still terrify him. Maybe because this time around he has a wider circle of potential collateral damage.

He has a _goddaughter_.

"If it's any consolation," Stacey says, forcing a brave face on. He looks across to her, unwilling to accept that there are any words that can make him feel even the slightest bit better.

"Yes?"

"Well, Molly said he only managed a few minutes before he - "

Sherlock closes the gap between them with one long stride, and covers her mouth with the palm of his hand.

"I don't need to know that." His voice is firm, but Stacey's overshare has the desired effect. It pulls him out of his reverie, and he is galvanised into taking action. He removes his hand from her mouth, and she's aware that it's sweaty, though whether from fear or withdrawal remains to be seen.

He makes a decision with regards to his phone, but as he's about to dial, the phone starts to ring, the loud sound jarring in the heavy silence of the apartment.

He taps the green button, and quickly presses the phone against his ear.

"John? Are you all right?"

His face is etched with concern, then morphs to confusion, then downright befuddlement.

"What do you mean _sister_?" he asks. "I don't _have_ a sister."

They're not exactly the words Stacey expected to hear. She ought to be making a move, her lunch break's nearly over, and she still has to leg it back to the hospital, but this is far too interesting. She folds her arms, while John talks, Sherlock's face contorting more and more with each and every sentence.

"Mycroft doesn't _misspeak_." His tone is solemn now, and he swallows, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. There's a long pause and then, "Come over, we'll figure it out. Are you sure you're all right?"

John must be okay, because Sherlock hangs up once he's received his answer and lets out a long, slow, breath. He rests his hands on his hips while he thinks, and Stacey stands there, unsure as to whether she needs to do anything. Should she suggest that he calls the police? Should he call his brother? He needs to do _something_ because this is huge, it's clearly _huge_.

She wonders what Molly would do.

"Are you okay?" she asks.

He looks towards her, and he's so obviously not, but he nods anyway, his teeth pulling at his lower lip, anxiety twitching through him.

"Will you look after her?" he asks at last. "Until I get this sorted?"

Stacey nods. Of course she will. She always will.

"I know she's stressed, and I know it's my fault, but..." he ruffles his hair with both hands, as though he's trying to shake the dust out of his brain so he can think clearly, so he can focus on the situation at hand. "I need to talk to her, I _know that_ , but this is..."

"I know," Stacey replies, her voice soft. "You're about to get involved in something stupidly dangerous."

He nods, his chest expanding with a deep, steadying breath.

"Does she know you're here?" he asks, and Stacey shakes her head. This is entirely a stealth visit.

"Don't worry," she says. "I'll do food and a rubbish film tonight. Tide her over until you get your shit together."

He nods, though he's staring into space, his mind whirring at a hundred miles per hour, while his mouth embraces a caretaker role.

"Until I get my shit together."


	13. Chapter 13

**Dust in the Air**

 **by Flaignhan**

* * *

She's tired.

Stacey had kept her up until two o'clock with food and episodes of Dinner Date.

She's tired, but her heart feels a little lighter.

She goes through the motions of the morning, just about functioning. She steers clear of coffee, and opts for an 'energising' smoothie instead.

It has little effect, but at least it's something.

When her phone rings, her heart sinks at the sight of his name.

He wants something.

She pulls off her gloves and picks up the phone, holding it to her ear.

"Hi," she sighs, picking at a loose bit of edging on the workbench.

"Hey," he says in response. There's a lot of background noise, lots of people talking and rushing about, but his words cut through the chaos. "I'm just calling to let you know I'm okay," he tells her. "I thought you'd want to hear it from me."

Molly frowns. "Why... _wouldn't_ you be okay?" she asks. There is a tingle of dread in her stomach, but he's fine, he's just told her as much. Something bad has happened, but she's learning it after the fact, so she needn't worry.

She's worried.

"There was a thing," he says vaguely. "It might have involved a drone with a grenade strapped to it."

Molly inhales deeply, and leans heavily against the workbench.

"Everyone's fine," he says. "I'm fine, John's fine, Mrs Hudson's fine, Mycroft's fine."

"And Rosie?"

"She's at nursery, she's fine."

Molly lets out a shaking breath, her hand gripping the edge of the table. "Did it go off?"

"Just a bit," he says. "The flat's...well, it's seen better days."

Molly closes her eyes, but then all the alternatives flood her brain, all the potential casualties, fatalities, charred and broken flesh in place of the faces she knows and loves.

She snaps her eyes open, and focuses on the clinically white wall ahead of her. "You can stay at mine if you need to," she tells him. "You know you can. And Mrs Hudson as well, she can stay in the spare room for as long as she needs."

"She's fine," he replies. "She's staying with someone from her kaluki group."

Molly nods, her hand massaging the back of her neck. "And you?" she asks.

"I've got to sort things out here," he tells her. "I don't think I'll have time to - "

"Be careful," she says, because she knows it's the last thing he'll think to do. But he must. He _must_.

"Look," he says, and the background noise fades just a little. There's a hint of reverb on his voice, as though he's turned into a corner, away from the hive of activity taking place around him. "I know things haven't been..." he trails off, and Molly chews on her lip. He's doing serious conversation. He _never_ does serious conversation.

But they need to. They need to do a lot of it.

"I know I need to be better," he says, his words becoming a quiet, private confession. "And I know we need to talk, _properly_ talk."

"Yeah," Molly breathes. "Yeah, we do."

"I've got a couple of things I need to tell you," he says, then before anxiety can tighten its grip too much, adds, "Not bad things. Just...things."

"Yeah, me too," Molly replies.

"Good," he says, and she can hear him release a nervous breath. "Although, I'm surprised we've got any secrets left, to be honest."

"Sherlock, we need to _go_." It's Mycroft's voice that interrupts them, and there is an urgency to it that Molly has rarely heard.

" _Yes_ , just give me a _minute_."

"What's going on?" Molly asks. "Who blew up your flat?"

"It's all a bit complicated at the moment," Sherlock says quickly, his voice sounding closer than ever. She suspects he may be shielding their call from curious ears by shrinking further into the corner, covering the mouthpiece with his hand to keep his voice from travelling. "I just need to get things straightened out here. It won't take long, and then first chance I get, I'll come and tell you everything."

"Okay," she says, even though it's not. There's no other option. There's nothing he can say that will settle the worry that's bubbling away in her stomach.

"I know you've been stressed lately," he continues, and his voice fades in and out; he's turning to check on the progress of something, or perhaps to see how impatient Mycroft is getting. "And I know I've not been helping. And I know I should have told you about the drugs, rather than let you find out like you did. I know there are a lot of things I should have done differently."

She doesn't have anything to say, because it's all true. Nothing to argue, nothing to console, it's just the truth, and there's no way around it.

"I promise you I'll come over as soon as everything's settled here. I _promise_."

"Okay," she says, the word barely audible.

"I have to go," he says. "I'll see you soon."

The line goes dead, and she places her phone on the bench, her hands shaking. He's about to go and do something stupid and reckless.

This is only further confirmed when she receives a text from him, a few minutes later.

 _You're very important to me. Please don't ever forget that._

It's then, she realises, that he thinks he might be about to die.

* * *

The first time he says it, it sounds like he's blindly piecing together a jigsaw, made up of words in a foreign language.

And yet, there's something in it. There is something in his voice.

He _could_ say it, he could say it like it was a line for a play, and he's manipulative, so he could even make a decent job of sounding like he might actually mean it.

But the second time...

She never asked him to say it twice, and maybe now he's gotten over that hurdle, maybe now he's realised that you can fall and still pick yourself up and carry on, the words come easily.

In all the time she's known him, those words have never passed his lips while sober.

There was one occasion, on a terrible comedown, after an overdose, when of course, of course he came to her, crying into her lab coat.

But this is different.

Whatever this game is, and she's certain, in some grotesque way, that it _is_ a game, she's almost pushed to believe he means it. And in whatever way he means it, he has at least been able to get those poisonous words out of his system.

She just wishes she could see him, could know what's going on.

" _Molly_."

There is desperation in his voice; he probably doesn't want to be left hanging, like a fool.

Maybe he should try being a fool for twenty years.

She can tell there are other people there, can hear the echo around his voice, which sounds further away than usual. She's certain he has an audience. And he said it in front of them.

He must have hated it.

"Molly _please_."

She doesn't know if she has the strength, especially not today. Especially not after _everything_. Can she really declare herself to a drug addict who lets her down time and time again?

She wouldn't be in this situation were it not for him.

She'd be living a normal life.

But normal is _boring_.

She moves the phone away from her ear, gripping it tightly, as she brings it round towards her lips.

It feels like she has rocks in her stomach, like she is being pulled in a thousand directions, but none of them are where she wants to go.

It feels as though it's the end of the world.

"I love you."

She barely squeezes the words out before the phone goes dead, and she closes her eyes, one solitary tear escaping her eyelid.

The kettle comes to the boil, the switch flicking off, the light on the base extinguishing. Molly inhales a deep, shuddering breath, and it feels like there is a fist gripping her heart, crushing it with strong fingers. Mercy is just a faraway, abstract concept meant for somebody else.

She unlocks her phone with trembling fingers, and types a quick text message.

 _Can you come over?_

It's with a reliability and speed of which any national military would be incredibly proud, that fifteen minutes later, Molly hears the wheels of a Mini Cooper screech to a halt, followed by the growl of a quick parallel park and the cranking of a handbrake.

Stacey barrels into the hallway, takes one look at Molly, and then goes to say something, but the words don't come.

Whatever she was going to say is replaced by the question: "Tea?"

Molly nods, arms folded across her stomach, phone still clutched tightly between her fingers, in case he calls back.

It's foolish optimism. She knows that.

Stacey moves into the kitchen, and takes down an extra mug from the cupboard. She adds some more water to the kettle, and sets about making the tea that Molly couldn't bring herself to finish.

"What happened?" Stacey asks, prodding at the teabag in her own cup while it brews.

Molly's throat is tight, and she's not sure she can bring herself to say it. Her teeth tug at the inside of her lower lip, her thumbnail scraping back and forth along the edge of her phone.

"Did he come round?" Stacey asks.

Molly frowns. "No, why?"

Stacey shakes her head, but Molly's certain that there is something more to her question. She doesn't need to say anything for Stacey to get uncomfortable. The silence is enough, and she can only obliviously stir her tea so long before she snaps.

"I went to see him," she confesses, sliding Molly's tea across to her. "A couple of days ago."

Dread floods her veins, and Molly can barely breathe.

Why?

 _Why_?

"Why?" she chokes out. "Why did you do that?"

"I didn't say anything that I haven't said before!" Stacey rushes around the counter, and takes Molly by the upper arms, her blatant honestly written across her face. "I just shouted at him about drugs, about how he treats you, how he needs to get the _hell_ over you selling the flat. He can't carry on like this, and you _definitely_ can't. It's not sustainable."

Molly nods, and after a moment, Stacey wraps her arms around her, pulling her into a hug. Molly sags against her, tears threatening again.

"I promise it's going to be okay," Stacey whispers. "I swear on my life, no matter what happens, it will be okay. I'll make it so."

The smallest of smiles stretches Molly's lips. "You can't just force everything to be okay," she says.

"Watch me," Stacey says, her voice strong as she pulls back from the hug, smiling down at Molly.

Molly laughs, and it doesn't feel quite so much like the end of the world. Stacey grabs both mugs of tea and leads the way into the lounge, and they settle themselves on the sofa.

She knows she must relate it, must extract the words from her heart, and release them into the open. Slowly but surely, she goes through the whole thing, Stacey's mouth hanging open, eyes widening as she goes on.

"And then I told _him_ to say it," Molly tells her, and Stacey grins.

" _Yes_ ," she says, pumping her fist. "Good work! Did he say it?"

Molly nods. "Twice."

Stacey nearly falls off of the sofa, although this may be a slightly exaggerated reaction. " _Twice_?" she laughs, her eyes bright. "That's brilliant! You wait twenty years for a bus..." She trails off, her amusement vanishing, and her brow creases as she settles back on the sofa.

"What's the matter?" Molly asks. That nauseating feeling is building in her stomach, acid rising in her throat. If Stacey's worried, then that's something everybody needs to be concerned about.

"What happened after?" Stacey asks, a cloud settling over her eyes, darkening her gaze.

"I..." Molly looks down at her legs, crossed beneath her. "I said it back," she mumbles.

"And _then_?" Stacey presses, unconcerned by Molly's declaration.

"Well," Molly says, looking back up at her. "The phone went dead."

"Jesus," Stacey breathes, and she lifts her hips so she can pull her phone out of the pocket of her jeans, and unlocks it quickly, tapping her thumbs against the screen at a speed that would rival Sherlock.

"What are you doing?" Molly asks, her concern growing with every passing second.

"I'm _calling_ him," she says, and she brings his number up on his website, then taps it. She lifts the phone to her ear and waits. Silence falls while the phone tries to connect, and Molly's battered heart is pounding in her chest.

From where she sits, at the opposite end of the sofa, Molly can still hear the voice on the other end of the line.

 _It has not been possible to connect your call._ _P_ _lease hang up. Please hang up. Please hang up._

Stacey disconnects the call and lowers her phone, placing it on the sofa cushion. Her eyes meet Molly's, and Molly knows there's something she's not saying, something that she's been keeping to herself.

"Tell me." The words come out in a soft whisper, and Stacey skews her lips to one side, and avoids Molly's eyes. Perhaps she thinks if she can avoid direct eye contact for long enough, she needn't spill her secret.

"He found something," Stacey says, and she pulls at a loose thread on her shirt, rolling it between her finger and thumb. "The day before, you know."

Molly does know. She can't bear to think of drones and grenades right now. Not when her distractions have led her straight into blindness.

"What did he find?" Molly asks. Part of her doesn't want to know the answer. Part of her wants to crawl into a hole and not come out for a month.

But that's not an option.

" _Stacey_."

Stacey hesitates, her mouth slightly ajar as she breathes, her eyes betraying the terrible nature of the situation.

"I don't even understand it," she says, a nervous smile finding its way onto her lips, her teeth glinting in the lamplight. "I don't... I mean, we'd be jumping to conclusions and - "

" _Stacey_ ," Molly says through gritted teeth, the hem of her jumper balled in her fist. "His flat _exploded_ two days ago. I just had a _fucked up_ phone call from him where he begged me not to hang up..." She covers her face with her hands and tries not to imagine the worst. Now, in hindsight, it's obvious. It's all _so_ obvious.

He was scared. She could hear it in his voice, in that slightly higher, gentler tone he had used when trying to convince her that everything was hunky dory.

She should have known.

She should have _known_.

"It was a piece of paper," Stacey tells her, and Molly peeps through the gap in her fingers to see Stacey, knees pulled up to her chest, arms wrapped around her legs. "But there was a message on it. A secret message, in linseed oil. You can only see it under a blacklight."

Molly lowers her hands a fraction, just enough for her next words to be crystal clear. "What did the message say?"

Stacey looks for a moment as though she's about to refuse, as though this is too much for her. Molly is aware, now more than ever, that the eighteen year old Stacey who sat next to her in her first biology seminar all those years ago, never signed up for any of this. She could never have anticipated the drug threaded drama that would ensue for decades after that first contact.

But here she is, all the same.

" _What did it say_?" Molly asks again, and she moves forward in anticipation, clutching at the sofa cushions.

Stacey opens her mouth, and says the two words that Molly had hoped she would never hear again.

 _Miss me?_


	14. Chapter 14

**Dust in the Air**

 **by Flaignhan**

* * *

 _She's drowning in him._

 _He is full of rage and grief and devastation, and he grips her like she might slip away from him at any minute._

 _She pulls his tie loose, and hopes she never sees him wear it again. Never the black noose choking him on such a terrible day._

 _He presses himself against her, one hand at the small of her back, pulling her closer, while the other collides with the open kitchen cabinet door. The slam shudders through them, but they don't break._

 _He grips a fistful of her dress, knuckles digging into her flesh, desperation reigning, his breath hot against the side of her face._

 _Everything is terrible, but they survive the terrible together. It's what they've always done._

* * *

Her neck is stiff. The room is dark, and Molly pushes herself up from the sofa, blanket falling away from her.

She can't see Stacey, and it's cold, colder than it ought to be. She rubs her eyes and stands up, stifling a yawn as she tastes the echo of cigarette smoke in the air.

 _His_ cigarettes.

He's here.

She opens the door and steps out into the hallway. The front door is open a crack, and a chilly draft carries in the fumes of not one, but two cigarettes. Stacey is sitting on the front steps with him, indulging a habit that she has tried to steer clear of since her student days.

She always used to bum cigarettes off of Sherlock.

Some things never change.

"At least you're all right," Stacey says, her voice soft. "And you two can sort everything out. You've just got to be a grown up now. You've been dicking about for long enough."

"I know," he murmurs in response. "Does she hate me?"

"Of course she doesn't. But it was...you know."

"I know."

Molly folds her arms, and steps out of the path of the draft. She tries to keep her breathing steady, lest he realise she's eavesdropping on them.

He sounds like he's been through the mill this evening.

"At least you know you can say it," Stacey says. "You can say it and the world doesn't end."

"It felt like the world was ending," Sherlock argues, and he inhales deeply, taking a long drag on his cigarette.

"Yeah but that was because of Murdery McMurderface. _Not_ because of the words."

Sherlock lets out a breath of laughter, followed by a cough, brought on by what Molly can only assume, has been a chain smoking binge.

It's not the worst binge he's ever had.

She steps forward, deciding she's heard enough second hand information. She pulls open the front door, and Sherlock looks up at her from the step, Stacey twisting round as well.

"He's alive," she says, nodding towards Sherlock. "Which is better than we expected, if we're honest."

Sherlock throws a scowl in Stacey's direction, then stubs his cigarette out in the neighbour's plant pot and stands up.

He looks exhausted.

"I'll head home," Stacey says, and she too stubs out her cigarette - half finished - and dumps it into next door's plant pot.

They're a pair of heathens. Both of them.

"Get cab," Sherlock says, not looking at her. "You're too tired to drive."

Stacey's eyes flick towards him, and she looks as though she might argue, but then she steps towards the front door, and Molly stands aside to let her in so she can get her coat and bag.

"You need to tell him," she whispers, her words hidden from Sherlock by the rustle of her puffer jacket. "I promise it'll be all right."

Molly nods, and Stacey pulls her into a quick hug, then presses a kiss against her cheek. "Text me if you need me," she adds. "I've got to come and get the car anyway, but if you need me - "

"Thanks," Molly says, and she forces out a smile. "I'll see you tomorrow."

Stacey moves past Molly and out onto the steps again, reaching up to give Sherlock's shoulder a firm squeeze of reassurance.

She's rooting for both of them.

Maybe they can get through this. If Stacey the Rottweiler, who hated Tom because he was 'boring' and his 'jokes were mega shit' is rooting for Sherlock, after _everything_ , then there's still hope.

If she can forgive him, then Molly already knows the some of the outcome of this conversation, even if she doesn't know quite how they'll get there.

"Can we talk?" he asks. "It can wait until morning if you're tired, but..."

Molly shakes her head, and he steps over the threshold. He unbuttons his coat with trembling fingers, and she knows that this will be neither a short, nor simple conversation.

"I'll make some tea," she says, and she turns and heads for the kitchen, Sherlock following behind once he's hung his coat up.

A heavy silence sets in while the kettle boils, and Molly stands against the counter, staring down at the mugs. She tries to force the phone call out of her mind, but she'd been standing in this very spot, hours ago, when she had had those words stolen from her, long before they were ready.

Apparently, Sherlock can't take it any longer.

"I have a sister."

It is the first poison dart that he rips from his flesh, and then the details come, the context, and it all tumbles away from him, leaving him bare.

And of course, of course, crowbarring those words out of her heart had been the last thing he'd wanted to do, but it was do or die, and he chose to do.

She's grateful, if a little creeped out by the big brother scenario in her flat.

"I'll sort the cameras out in the morning," he says, and he lifts his mug to his lips. His hands are _still_ shaking, his fringe falling into his eyes.

She wonders if she ought to tell him in the morning instead. Let him rest, let him recover.

But if they're stripping away the last of their secrets, she needs to do it tonight. She _should_ do it tonight. Stacey will hold her accountable if she doesn't. Besides, he's here, in her flat, and she doesn't know what tomorrow will bring, but there's always the potential that something else will pop up, will grab his attention and drag him away. Especially when he's trying to steer clear of his favourite sin.

How does she even tell him though? She grips her mug with shaking hands, and she can smell the tannin in her tea, stronger than before. She hasn't switched brands, but it's overpowering.

She sets her mug down firmly on the side, and the porcelain clatters against the countertop. Molly ducks out of the kitchen, aware of Sherlock's gaze on her, and makes it into the bathroom, kicking the door shut just in time for her to heave into the toilet bowl.

There's barely anything to give. She hasn't eaten since the last time she threw up, so it's just a long string of bile and spit, but she can't stop. She coughs and splutters and wretches until the feeling subsides.

She yanks a strip of toilet paper from the roll, wipes her mouth, and chucks it down the toilet. She pushes herself up, gripping the sink as her legs wobble beneath her, and she reaches forward, flushing the toilet before she flips the lid down. She sits down on it, head in her hands as she tries not to cry.

It's a fruitless exercise.

Hot tears spill down her cheeks, and finally, after all this time, she lets go, because she's so scared, and she doesn't know what's going to happen, or how she's going to make it work - only that she _must_. She shoves her hand into her mouth, biting down hard to keep herself from making a sound.

The floorboard outside the bathroom creaks, a shadow moving in the strip of light between the bottom of the door and the floor.

"Molly?" His voice is quiet, soft, but Molly can't keep things under control any longer and strangled sob escapes her.

He opens the door without hesitation, and there's a clatter as he drops something, but then he's crouching before her, arms wrapped around her as he pulls her against him. She cries and she cries and she cries, gripping onto him tightly because he's the only thing that can ground her. He's the only one that can eliminate just a portion of that fear, and she needs him, she needs him so much, but she knows that she can't rely on him to be the person she needs. Not for this.

She wouldn't expect that of him. It's too much.

"When were you going to tell me?" he asks, his hands cupping her face, thumbs brushing away her tears before they have the chance to travel too far.

She lets out a humourless laugh, which isn't fair. "When would _you_ have told you?" she asks. "On the high? Or on the comedown?"

He closes his eyes, and pulls her closer, resting his forehead against hers.

Her words are harsh, but they're also true.

"It's going to be okay," he whispers, and she wonders if it's for her benefit or his. He says it again, and again, and again, until she pulls away from him, opening her eyes.

"Are you okay?" she asks. Over his shoulder, she spies the pregnancy test on the floor.

He's found it, hidden in the most boring place in her flat - in between her home insurance documents and her energy bill, in the bottom drawer of her desk.

She's too predictable it seems.

"Me?" he asks, astounded that she would even be asking after him. "I'm _fine_ , it's you that's got a _person_ growing inside you."

She almost smiles. "Emotionally, I mean."

He pauses, sinking back onto his haunches, searching for an honest answer.

"I don't...you know." She can't get it out, but she wants to give him his get out of jail free card before he can become too horrified by the situation. Before they exchange words they can never take back. "I don't _expect_ anything of you," she tells him, her eyes focused on the towel rail as she forces the words out of her mouth. "I know this isn't really what you wanted."

"So?" he says. "Who _actually_ knows what they really want? We can make the best of this." He takes her by the hand and she looks away from him, because she can't, she _can't_ let him rush into this. She can't let him do 'The Right Thing' just because he thinks that's what people do.

It wouldn't be fair.

"You haven't thought this through."

"I don't _need_ to think it through."

" _Yes_ , Sherlock," she says, leaning forward, fixing his gaze with hers. "You _do_. Because it'll do a whole lot more damage if you start and then stop. You're either in it, or you're not, and if you're not then that's okay, and I won't be angry, and I won't be disappointed, but if you _are_ , then that's it. You're making a commitment to be..." She can't even say the word out loud, because it doesn't suit him. She looks at him and she can think of a million words to describe him, but this one? She has trouble making it fit.

"A dad."

"Yeah," she breathes. "That."

"Yeah," he says, giving her hand a squeeze. She squeezes back, knowing he needs the reassurance. She's quite sure if he had the choice, he'd live through the drone grenade a second time rather than have this conversation. "It's about time I got my shit together though, isn't it? I've been...dicking about for long enough."

The words sound funny, coming from his mouth. "Stacey," she says, and he nods.

"Well, rather irritatingly, she's not _always_ an idiot."

Molly raises her eyebrows, waiting for him to continue.

"Of course she's not an idiot," he concedes with a sigh. "She's your best mate. I just begrudge being given sensible advice by a woman who I've seen drink _fourteen_ Bacardi Breezers just so she could throw up on someone out of _spite_."

"That was _years ago_ ," Molly says, grimacing at the memory. "She's much more...respectable these days."

"I suppose you'll want her to be godmother," he says stiffly, and Molly frowns. He's getting a bit ahead of himself, but, she supposes, throughout this entire conversation he's probably been running a million scenarios through his head, trying to work out what's for the best.

"I don't know as if I'm that fussed about all that," Molly tells him, and his eyes flash with something she can't quite pinpoint.

"You mean you _don't_ want our child to be indoctrinated into a cult before they're old enough to speak?"

She wants to give him a withering look, wants to tell him that she's very aware of his views on religion and he doesn't need to reiterate them, especially not when he's the one who brought the subject up. But all she can think about is the ease with which he said the words 'our child'.

Maybe he's much better at adapting than she'd previously expected.

Either that or he's being so stubborn that his mind won't let him contemplate anything else.

"Well?" he asks, and he shifts onto his knees, moving closer to her.

"Yeah," she says, shrugging. "I mean it's...a waste of time and money when you don't actually believe in any of it, isn't it?"

He gently cups her face and brings her forward so that he can press his lips to her forehead. "We can make this work," he says in a whisper. "I know we can."

She wraps her arms around his neck and he holds her close, his body warm against hers. She closes her eyes and inhales. It's all there, every atom of it him; his shampoo, his soap, his cigarettes, the dampness from the rain. All of it him, and all of it reassuring.

"I can start charging rich idiots a triple fee," he murmurs. "So I can keep Baker Street on for work, but we can still have...a proper home."

She holds him tighter, every ounce of worry eking out of her. She almost wants to laugh, because most men, confronted by this surprise, would need time to process. But he's not most men.

He is, even with the biggest shock of his life, eternally practical.

It's sweet, in a way.

"Are you saying you'll move in here?" she asks, her words muffled by his shirt collar.

"If you want me to," he replies.

"But you _hate_ this flat," she says. Her heart constricts at the idea of him not being happy. She can't let him be miserable; apart from the fact that things would fall apart so quickly, she could _never_ inflict that on him.

"Your old flat was where I felt safest," he says, his words slow and carefully considered. Molly blinks away a few rogue tears. She thinks she ought to have run out of them by now, but apparently not. "It's where I ended up after every crisis, every overdose, every..." He stops talking and takes a deep breath. "But, as your idiot friend _reminded me_ ," the words are more stilted now, and she can tell he's building up to something. "Home is wherever you choose to love me."

Molly laughs into his shoulder, then pulls away from him. There is an earnest, wide eyed expression on his face, but she can't _stop_ laughing. "She is _so_ full of shit and you just lap it up, don't you?"

"What do you - ?"

"Stacey _does_ care, don't get me wrong. But she just spouts out things that she's heard in films, or things she thinks sounds good. She doesn't _actually_ believe any of it. She just likes pretending she's _wise_."

Sherlock lowers himself back onto his heels, his arms slack. She thinks he might actually be confused.

"I thought you'd have realised that," she says. "Maybe after the fourth time she went to a Halloween party dressed as Gandalf."

"Who's Gandalf?" he asks, brow creased.

"Doesn't matter," Molly replies, waving the question away. "She went as God a few times as well."

"I thought she went as Enya," he mumbles, crestfallen.

How Enya fits in his frame of reference when Gandalf does not is a question for another day. Perhaps Orinoco Flow had been the soundtrack to many a session.

"Ignore all that for a minute," Molly continues. "She just wants to make happy families and the reality is...well, the reality is _reality._ You can't just sacrifice your happiness for the next twenty years because - "

"What, like you've done for the last twenty years?"

It's a fair point, and one she cannot argue.

"Molly, I've lived in...boarding schools, tiny grotty flats, _big_ grotty flats, tiny _nice_ flats...they always feel better when you're there. Always more like home. Stacey _is_ right, you're just a cynic, and maybe that's my fault, maybe that's what I've done to you, but...this is a _big_ , _nice_ flat, and if you want me, _here_..." he pauses, and takes a deep breath before he looks up, meeting her eyes. "You can have me."

She closes her eyes for a moment, to let the words settle, and her brain is screaming at her to leave it be, that she's given him enough chances to clarify, that she's been very enormously clear about her position.

But her heart wants him to be happy.

"Are you sure this is what you want?"

"Do you honestly think there is any universe in which I could leave you in this mess and _ever_ be happy?"

She hadn't thought of it like that.

"I meant it," he says, his voice soft, hands finding hers once more. "I did. And you're right...it's _so hard_ to say it when it's true."

She bites her lip, and tries to breathe steadily, further tears threatening to build.

"I know I've let you down," he continues, and his hands are trembling now. She doesn't think he's ever confronted his emotions this much in all his life, and now it's like a dam has burst and he's not sure what to do with the flood. "I've let you down, so many times, and in so many ways. But...this feels like a really good time to _not_ let you down."

She smiles, and her heart lifts, because she knows he's going to try, with every fibre of his being, to be the best dad he can. A tiny part of her is excited to see that happen, to see him have his world turned on its head in the _best way_.

"Are you okay?" he asks, and he reaches up to brush a stray tendril of hair away from her face.

"Yeah," she says. "I think I am."

He smiles, then moves closer, cupping her face and brushing his lips against hers.

"I just threw up," she says.

"I don't care," he says, and he kisses her again.

She doesn't stop him.

* * *

She's drowning in him.

He's full of nerves, the tremor in his hands giving him away as he touches her, fingertips uncertain as they graze against her skin.

But then he manages to get out of his head. He goes by instinct instead, by feeling, and in the dark they join together, his breath fluttering against her skin, She sighs as the world falls away, and grips him tighter, her nails digging into his flesh.

This is them.

This is them, and it's messy and it's clumsy, and it's perfect.


	15. Chapter 15

**A/N:** Hey everyone, it's epilogue time. Just to flag, there have been some hella inconveniences with the line breaks not working properly on this fic. Sorry about that. Hope things have been clear regardless. Thank you to everyone who has reviewed this story, and the whole series, and extra special thanks to livealoner for being my beta and staying up until 5am on Boxing Day to talk about Sherlolly and eat chocolate. Great stuff. Also thanks to those who were so helpful when my random questions went out on tumblr. Basically, everybody is great. Peace out.

* * *

 **Dust in the Air**

 **by Flaignhan**

* * *

She and Stacey drink tea these days. It's a temporary situation, as Stacey is often keen to remark. There are many promises made to go out on the lash as soon as Molly is released from the maternity ward.

If she's honest, Molly's looking forward to it. The accidental nature of her current condition means that there was no forward planning, no last hurrah before she settled herself down for a very sensible pregnancy. There had just been a single moment, when she had been offered a glass of wine, and had had to turn it down, with a quiet thought of _Oh, well that's that for now then_.

She doesn't miss all that really (she might miss being tipsy and silly with Stacey, but there are other ways to have fun). She's got plenty going on, lots to keep her occupied, and Sherlock is doing his very best to be every inch the perfect father to be.

He makes the tea in the mornings, and he doesn't make a sound when he comes in late or goes out early. She really can't complain.

Stacey is thoroughly enjoying the opportunity to increase their takeaway horizons. Another of her reminders is that Molly is eating for two these days, and so she brings extra portions from whichever outlet she stops by on her way over.

One time, Stacey had seen Sherlock while she'd been sitting in the Fortune House, on the opposite pavement, heading homewards. She'd added a couple more bits to the order, a gesture which had been rewarded with a brief look of pleasant surprise and a "Thanks, Stace," before they had reverted back to their usual teasing.

Molly has two solid lifelines, upon whom she can rely without a single doubt that they will both come good, should the occasion ever call for it.

She is happy.

It's a little while before John finds out, but he is the first, apart from Sherlock and Stacey.

Sherlock comes home one evening, having been summoned by Mycroft earlier in the afternoon. He says hello to Rosie, who is engrossed in brightly coloured cartoons, and then diverts his attention to Molly. He crouches down, resting on his haunches, and he brushes her fringe from her face.

Sometimes she thinks he only likes her fringe because it gives him an excuse to touch her.

His other hand finds her belly and rests against it, despite there not being much evidence of anything going on yet. He likes to feel, though. Measure progress with the palm of his hand.

She likes it too.

There is a thud as something hits the floor, and they both turn to look towards the doorway, Sherlock snatching his hand back.

John is standing there, and Rosie's bottle is on the floor.

"Oh," he says.

Molly presses her lips together. She doesn't know what to say, doesn't want to blurt anything out. They haven't discussed the eventuality of _telling people_ , and Stacey only knows because she's Molly's natural confidant.

She knew well before Sherlock did.

John opens and closes his mouth a few times. He inhales, ready to say something, but then his eyebrows quirk and he refrains, choosing a few more moments of processing instead.

"Are you..." he trails off, ducks to pick up Rosie's bottle, then has another go at the question. "Are you _pregnant_?"

Molly looks towards Sherlock, who is sporting a blank expression. She worries for a moment that his brain might have crashed, that he might need rebooting in safe mode, as he sometimes does.

"She's a _bit_ pregnant," Sherlock admits.

"A _bit_ pregnant?" John repeats, and a broad grin spreads across his face. "Is that what happens when you have a _bit_ of sex?"

Sherlock doesn't have an answer for that, and so John tosses him Rosie's bottle.

"Best get practicing, eh?"

* * *

He's anxious. He keeps shifting in his seat, looking in the rearview mirror as though they might be being followed.

They're not.

John and Rosie are in the back, both of them fast asleep, the hum of the engine a distant comfort.

The countryside whizzes by, and she toys with the idea of getting a car. It's all well and good hiring one once in a blue moon, but cabs and public transport are soon to become a lot more difficult.

Plus it's nice, being driven around by him.

"You okay?" she asks.

Both hands are on the steering wheel, and he readjusts his grip far too frequently for her to be in danger of believing any less than truthful answers.

"I don't know what they're going to say," he says, staring at the road ahead, jaw set.

"Well they'll be happy, won't they?" Molly says. "Of course they will."

"Oh I know they'll be _happy_ ," Sherlock says, glancing across to her for half a second before his eyes move back to the road. "But I don't think they'll have ever expected it of me. It makes it all a bit harder to say."

She knows what he means. Even if they'd been together for a little while, a year or so, even though it's him, it would be so much easier to say. But as it is, this is coming completely out of the blue, just as it did for them.

The Holmeses will be lovely grandparents though, of that she is certain.

"It'll be okay," she promises. "They'll be over the moon, they won't press you too much."

"Yeah but I don't like the idea of them _knowing_ ," he says.

Molly laughs. "And the alternative is to wait five years and turn up with a walking, talking child, and say, 'Hey Mum and Dad, look what I made!'?"

"No, it's the _making_ that bothers me," he tells her, a scowl settling on his face. "I don't want them knowing that..." His words fade, but a light bulb clicks on in Molly's head. She knows what he's getting at, and maybe it is weird for him. He's never brought anyone home before, has never had any sort of romantic relationship that they know of. He's gone from zero to sixty in the space of a heartbeat.

"They won't think about that," she tells him. "They don't _want_ to think about that any more than _you_ want them to think about that. It'll be fine. Trust me."

He taps his fingers against the steering wheel, his lower lip tugging as his teeth graze against it.

"So you're part of the majority," she says with a shrug. "Most people your age _have,_ you know. It doesn't make you _odd_."

"Yeah but I'm not..." he pauses, readjusts his grip on the steering wheel again, and lets out a sigh. "I'm not _normal_ , am I?"

"Of course you're _normal,_ " Molly says, a little quicker than she'd anticipated. "You're not _ordinary_ , but you _are_ normal."

"Distinction?" he asks, curiosity overwhelming his anxiety for a brief moment.

"Well," Molly says. It's an abstract thought at the back of her head, but it's one she knows to be true. It takes her a moment to verbalise it, to turn the feeling into a coherent sentence, one that makes sense to him, and will cease his worries over everyday, _human_ things. "The opposite of normal is _abnormal_ , and there's nothing wrong with you. The opposite of ordinary is _extraordinary_ , and you're definitely that."

He looks across at her again, a faint smile curving his lips. He looks back to the road, and takes his right hand off of the steering wheel, resting his elbow against the ledge of the door, his fingers gently playing with his hair.

He doesn't say anything else, but his nerves hang around, and only intensify once they're all sitting around the table having Sunday lunch. John keeps looking across, wondering when Sherlock will spill the beans, but it's not until the mains are being cleared away that Sherlock clears his throat.

"I need to tell you all something," he says,

"Are you on drugs again?" Mrs Holmes asks, a rather brutal looking serving spoon brandished in her hand.

" _No_ ," he says, offence flashing across his face before it disappears. Mrs Holmes gives him a look, one that suggests that it's always a reasonable conclusion to arrive at, and then her eyes land on Molly, narrowing thoughtfully.

"I erm," he says, and he swallows hard, glancing up at everyone, the attention focused on him entirely. John, who has Rosie on his lap, quirks a smile in Molly's direction, before giving Sherlock an encouraging nod.

"Spit it out, Sherlock," Mycroft drawls, raising his wine glass to his lips. "We haven't got _all day_."

Sherlock ignores him, and Molly can see him retreat further into his head, trying to put together the jigsaw pieces of what he wants to say, and how he ought to say it.

"I..." His hands are gripping the edge of the table tightly, knuckles popping under the skin. "I...that is to say _we_..."

It's starting to get painful, and Molly's skin is prickling, her stomach twisting into knots.

She needs to take action.

"I'm pregnant," she says, heat rising in her cheeks.

Mycroft chokes on his wine, bubbles spluttering in the glass.

"You're going to be grandparents," she says to Mr and Mrs Holmes. "Congratulations."

Sherlock's shoulders sag in relief, his hands slipping from the table as he releases a long slow breath.

Mycroft thumps his chest, still coughing, and then, once he's made some sort of recovery, clears his throat loudly.

"Well colour me shocked and surprised!" Mrs Holmes says, and she beams at Molly.

Of course she knew. She probably took one look at Molly and realised. One look at Sherlock might have done it too. What could he ever possibly get nervous about at Sunday lunch?

"We're going to be grandparents?" Mr Holmes asks quietly, a smile forming on his face.

" _Yes_ ," Sherlock says tersely. He's not quite got the hang of celebrating yet.

"And you're going to be an uncle," Molly says to Mycroft, pressing her lips together in an attempt to hide her delight at his baffled expression.

"How did this even..." Mycroft waves his hand vaguely towards the two of them. " _Happen_?"

And there it is. Oh how they can both rely on Mycroft to ask the questions to which no one wants the answer.

The revelation must be in serious breach of his assumptions about the world.

"There are two _doctors_ in this room, I'm sure one of them can explain it to you." Sherlock stands abruptly, his chair legs scraping against the tiled kitchen floor. "I'm going for a cigarette." He takes two steps towards the back door, and before Mrs Holmes can admonish him (although her chest swells with the breath ready to do so) he turns in a tight circle. "No I'm not," he says, and he plonks himself back down in his seat. "I don't smoke."

Mycroft raises an eyebrow, and Mr and Mrs Holmes share a look, one that might be of jubilation.

"Has impending fatherhood left you a teetotal man?" Mycroft asks. His smug look, Molly assumes, is most likely intentional, a coping mechanism to deal with the fact that Sherlock has done something _normal_. He is the golden child today.

"Yes, what a _terrible_ decision, giving up my filthiest habits in an attempt at being a decent father. How _cruel_ the world is." Every word is dripping with sarcasm, but it only amuses Mycroft.

Giving up cigarettes as well - his choice - has hit him hard. But he's determined. It's rather sweet.

Molly meets John's eyes, and he gives her a minute nod.

"Well why don't we go for a wander round the garden?" John suggests to Sherlock. "I'm sure Rosie would enjoy it. She'd love to explore your old haunts."

"Yeah," Sherlock grumbles, glancing at Rosie, who is sitting contentedly, playing with a cloth book. "Look at her. She's a real Ranulph Fiennes."

John fixes him with a hard look, and Sherlock gets up once more, heading for the back door.

"Yes, why don't you show your darling goddaughter the Oxo tin in the shed where you used to hide your cocaine?"

Mrs Holmes raps Mycroft on the arm with the serving spoon in her hand, and it serves an unintended dual purpose; shutting Mycroft up, and lifting Sherlock out of his sour mood. He heads out into the garden with John and Rosie, and Molly takes a sip of her cordial.

"We're absolutely _delighted_ , sweetheart," Mrs Holmes says, and she begins stacking the dishwasher ahead of dishing out dessert.

"Delighted," Mr Holmes echoes with a nod.

"Yes, we're all _thoroughly_ delighted," Mycroft adds, mimicking his parents and plastering a sickly smile on his face.

"Our money was always on Sherlock," Mrs Holmes say conspiratorially. "Mikey doesn't have the..." she waves one hand in the air, gravy boat clutched in the other while she hunts for the right word.

Mycroft watches her, eyebrow raised, awaiting her assessment.

"Demeanour," Mrs Holmes says at last. "You don't have the right demeanour, do you darling?" She passes him a damp cloth and gestures towards the table. Mycroft grudgingly follows orders, and wipes down the table cloth, taking care of the drips of gravy, rogue bobbles of broccoli, and a few loose strips of cabbage.

He takes her aside later, after dessert, when the others are sitting comfortably in the lounge, and she's on the way back from the loo.

She wonders if he's hung around, to ambush her, out of earshot of the others, but before she can consider the possibility too much, he clears his throat, and says very quietly, "I don't expect I'll be the most popular uncle that has ever lived. But," he pauses, and fiddles with the pocket of his waistcoat. "Should you ever need anything, regardless of what it is, if Sherlock is being unreasonable and you need some backup..."

Molly raises an eyebrow, and waits for him to finish.

"You have the full support of this family," he says. "And should you ever...well," he smiles briefly. "You have my direct number."

If she told Sherlock about any of this, she knows he would laugh, but she knows how much this conversation will have drained Mycroft. She knows it's not easy. That much is evident by the fact that he was loitering in the hallway.

"Thanks Mycroft," she says, and she steps forward, raising onto her tiptoes, and then kisses him on the cheek.

She steps away from him immediately, knowing that she has very much pushed him to his limits, and he clears his throat noisily.

"Well," he says, changing course rapidly. "What has Sherlock predicted?" Mycroft gestures towards her stomach, despite the fact that there's not much to show yet.

"A boy," she says. "He's certain."

Mycroft nods, and steps towards the lounge, poking his head through the doorway. He calls Sherlock's name and he looks up.

"One hundred pounds says it's a girl," Mycroft says.

Sherlock considers this for a moment, then gives a decisive nod. "You're on."

It is a bet that he eventually loses.

* * *

"D'you mind if I tell her?" he asks one evening.

She doesn't need to ask who 'her' is. She knows. And it's fine.

"Go ahead," she tells him, and she smiles even if she feels a little bit awkward. He has the right to tell whomever he pleases, and she can't set boundaries on that.

Tom knows, after all.

A mutual friend had let it slip, and then Tom had accidentally liked one of her old photos on Facebook while on the hunt for evidence to back up the claim.

He'd managed to congratulate her the next time they'd bumped into one another. It had been awkward, but it had been fine.

Sherlock is holding the scan beneath his phone, his thumb tapping the screen before the sound effect of a camera shutter breaks the silence. He taps out a quick message and sends it, before slipping the phone back into his pocket. He joins her on the sofa, and shoots off a few quick texts.

He's cleaning out the cobwebs, getting rid of some nagging cases.

He scrolls through his inbox while she watches _Bake Off,_ but then a sensuous sigh breaks the silence.

It makes her feel queasy, although that could just be the morning sickness.

"Should probably get rid of that," he mutters, embarrassed, and then after a moment, a soft smile touches his lips.

"What did she say?" Molly asks.

She's not sure if she really wants to know, but Sherlock hands her the phone, so she can read the whole exchange.

There is a picture of the scan, his thumb just visible in the corner, followed by the words:

 _I'm doing a grown up thing._

The reply is rather nice, and only makes Molly wonder even further what Irene Adler is like in real life.

 _Congratulations, Mr Holmes. I wish you all the best on your new adventure._

Molly smiles and passes the phone back to him. He taps out one last text, then sinks against Molly, laying his head in her lap, his legs hanging over the end of the sofa.

Any anxiety about that particular situation, however temporary, or deep set, dissolves when his free hand closes around hers.

He resumes his inbox scrolling, tutting when he comes across a particularly pointless or stupid case.

She'll never tire of seeing his face.

* * *

It's late when he comes in, and he pops his head round the door of the lounge while his duffle bag is still slung over his shoulder, coat done up tightly to fight the North Sea breeze.

"You all right?" he asks. He asks a lot these days, his eyes lingering on her belly as though it might spontaneously combust at any moment.

"Fine," she says, and she gives him a reassuring smile.

He seems satisfied, and he lifts the strap of his bag, ducking his head under it, then lowers the bag carefully to the floor. He takes off his coat and goes to hang it up, then heads straight for the kitchen. Within moments, the kettle is filled and placed on its stand, switched on, and left to do its work while Sherlock collects their mugs from the cupboards.

Molly smiles, and listens to the sounds of him clattering about, until he comes back into the lounge, a mug of tea in each hand, and a packet of biscuits tucked under his arm.

It's a welcome sight, especially when she's spent the past hour or so wondering whether she could go without tea long enough for him to come home and make it.

He places her tea on the side table, and Molly lifts her legs so he can join her on the sofa.

"How is she?" she asks as he makes himself comfortable.

He wiggles his head from side to side, unsure of what answer to give her. "She's fine," he says at last.

"Still quiet?"

"Yeah," he says. "Still quiet."

He rests one hand on her ankle, and raises his mug to his lips, taking a tentative sip of too hot tea.

"Did you tell her?" Molly asks, and he nods, lowering his mug and placing it on the table at his end.

"I suspect she already knew," he says, staring at the window, his eyebrows drawn into a frown. When Molly doesn't say anything, he turns to her and adds, "Cameras."

 _Oh_. _Yes_.

She wonders if Eurus saw, or if she fast forwarded, or if she just missed it altogether. Maybe the cameras didn't make it into her flat until after the event. Either way, it's something to which she doesn't _really_ want to know the answer.

"I told her it's a girl," Sherlock continues, his fingers tapping absentmindedly against her shin.

"And?" Molly asks.

"She seemed interested, actually."

Molly smiles. "Well that's good." Then she reconsiders. "Is that good?"

Sherlock nods, and she can tell that his mind is still far away, locked in a bunker on an island in the North Sea.

"I told her about the middle name as well. I think she was happy." He frowns for a moment before he explains. "We played Vivaldi after."

"Four Seasons?" Molly asks, and Sherlock shakes his head.

"Symphony in C Major," he tells her. "It's nice," he adds. "I'll play it for you one evening."

She smiles softly. She could never have imagined that her life would become this. That a confused moment of grief, followed by a premature, urgent declaration might end here.

"We should ask her what she thinks about a first name," Molly says. "If she's that much of a genius, I'm sure she'll come up with something good."

Sherlock exhales softly and leans his head back against the sofa cushions, staring at the ceiling.

"Something Eurus Hooper Holmes," he mutters.

"Why don't we just call her 'Something'?" Molly asks. Sherlock rolls his eyes, but then she is struck by an idea. Seeing as Latin is already a theme in the name, why not extend it? "What's the Latin for 'something'?" Molly asks.

Sherlock turns his head to look at her, a frown twitching at his eyebrows. "Aliquid," he says, his voice slow and suspicious. "Why?"

"We could call her Ali. So she's literally Something Eurus Hooper Holmes."

Sherlock doesn't look impressed. She thinks he might be wondering if pregnancy has addled her brain, but is too wary to say.

"We're _not_ naming our daughter after a Latin translation of a random word."

"It'd be funny though," Molly says with a smile. "And Ali _is_ a real name."

"I don't think naming your child is supposed to be _funny_ ," he replies, folding his arms across his chest while he thinks.

"Well _your_ parents certainly had a laugh," Molly says, the words slipping out of her mouth before she can stop them.

He sniggers, but then says, "That's exactly why I want to get this right. I know what it's like."

"Do you?" Molly asks. She's seen his medical records, she wrote out his death certificate for crying out loud. He hasn't got any secrets left from her. "Do you really, _William_?"

He ignores her.

"It's possible to choose something that's not funny and also not boring," Sherlock says. "I just don't know what it is."

"What's the Latin for daughter?" Molly asks. They might as well see what the options are, and a Latin translation would maybe cover his requirement of _not boring_.

"Filia," he answers automatically, and she wonders how many hours were spent at school, having a dead language drummed into him.

He's never deleted it. He must find it useful.

She thinks for a moment, and something jogs in her memory, dragging her back to school, and long English lessons on rainy mornings.

"Ophelia," she suggests with a shrug. "That's sort of similar, and it's an actual name, _and_ you like Shakespeare."

"I wouldn't say _like_ ," he counters, but she knows he's trying to save face. What for, she doesn't know. Maybe he's still caught up in his thing of _not liking stuff_.

She can work on that. Drag him to the Globe one evening, maybe, under the pretence that she'd like to go.

"Besides," he says. "Ophelia drowned. Maybe we should steer clear of that."

She'd forgotten that bit.

She bites her lip, wondering if her putting her foot in it has any jarring effect with him, but he still seems to be considering name possibilities.

"What about Cordelia?" she asks, continuing on the Shakespeare route. She racks her brains for every character she can think of from her readings at school, but Sherlock is already pulling a face.

"Dead _and_ boring," he replies, as though both outcomes are as bad as the other.

"Imogen?" she suggests. There are a few Imogens about, but that's no bad thing. There are a few Mollys about too.

Sherlock's sour face becomes more pronounced. "Bit...middle class, don't you think?"

"Too lowly for you?" Molly teases, and he grabs the nearest cushion and bats her on the legs with it.

"Well it's all bit 'Imogen! Come and eat your chia seeds!' isn't it?" He puts on a stupid voice, as though that's what he thinks parents of all Imogens sound like. He wrinkles his nose in distaste and Molly sniggers. She had no idea he was so well versed in middle class stereotypes, but he is, it seems, full of surprises.

"Besides, it's supposed to be Innogen," he adds. "But she'd just spend her whole life saying 'No it's double N'."

It's a fair point, and Molly's not really sold on either name. Maybe they'll know when they see her. Maybe they'll take one look at her and think _She's definitely a Charlotte_. Maybe they just have to leave it be for a while, and the world will make its mind up for them.

"Katarina," Sherlock says, and Molly frowns. "She was funny. _And_ she survived. I liked her."

Molly looks at him blankly.

"Taming of the Shrew?" he says.

"Oh," she replies, and she considers the suggestion. "Bit long winded, isn't it? Katarina Eurus Hooper Holmes?"

Sherlock tilts his head to one side, conceding her point. "Maybe we need to shorten the surname," he says with a shrug.

"What, like Holmper?" she laughs. "Or Hoomes?" She's not sure why she finds it quite so hilarious, maybe it's just because the words sound so ridiculous on her lips.

"That's not _quite_ what I meant," he says, throwing a feigned withering look towards her.

"Well what _did_ you mean?" she asks, and a smile twitches at her mouth, but Sherlock just shrugs his shoulders, non-committal.

"I don't know," he says, his eyes lingering on her smile before he returns his gaze to the ceiling and lets out a sigh. "Maybe it'll come back to me."

"Maybe," Molly says.

"I don't think she's a Katarina though," he says thoughtfully, changing the subject. She'll allow it. It might come back to him after all.

"So we're back to square one."

He hums in affirmation and takes a sip of his tea. "Square one," he says.

* * *

She rolls over and he's not there. It's the middle of the night, and he's left his phone on his pillow, the sheets still rumpled from where he had lain for at least a little while.

She pushes the duvet off of her and gets out of bed, reaching out in the dark for her dressing gown, and wrapping it around her. She opens the door and steps out into the hallway. There's a little bit of light, seeping out from the gap between the study door and its frame, and Molly walks over, pushing it open.

Sherlock is sitting at her desk, which is piled high with the books on his to-read list. His face is lit by the glow of her laptop, and he's scowling at the screen.

"Did I wake you up?" he asks, clicking the the track pad at regular intervals as his eyes scan over the words in front of him.

"No," she says, stepping forward and looking down at the book on the top of his pile.

 _The Expectant Dad's Survival Guide_

She picks it up, but then sees, underneath that:

 _Commando Dad - How to be an Elite Parent or Carer, from Birth to Three Years_

The pile continues in much the same vein, but Molly doesn't say anything.

"What you up to?" she asks, placing the book back down.

"Trying to register as a business," he says. His concentration is fixed on the screen, and Molly gets the feeling that he's been going through this for a good few hours. Maybe it had been a conscious choice to do it at night, when his desire to not wake her up would be more powerful than his desire to shout at the laptop and throw it out of the window.

"Why are you registering as a business?" she asks. She tries to keep the smile off her face, because she thinks she knows the answer. She just wants to hear him say it.

"Because I need to be able to pay both me _and_ John a salary," he says. "And I can't do that as a sole trader. So I have to register as a business."

The smile works its way onto her lips. "All sounds very boring and grown up."

"It is," he sighs, and he takes a break from looking at the screen, head resting against the heel of his palm, fingers curling in his hair. "D'you think we need to apply for change of use for 221B? Or d'you think it doesn't matter because Mrs Hudson owns it and she lives there?"

"I don't know," Molly says, and she raises a hand to her mouth, to stifle an oncoming yawn.

"We'd have to pay business rates if we did..." Sherlock muses, his brow furrowed.

"Why don't we sort it out in the morning?" Molly asks, and she holds her hand out to him. "Let's go back to bed."

He hesitates for a moment, then closes the lid of the laptop, immersing them in darkness. His hand finds hers, and they tread the well worn path back to bed.

As she lies there, tucked up against his side, she bites her lip to keep herself from laughing. Every time she thinks she might have it under control, another wave of amusement rolls over her, until she's shaking silently next to him.

"Are you having a seizure?" he asks, his voice blunt in the darkness.

"Business rates," she giggles, laughing against the soft cotton of his t-shirt. He huffs in the darkness, and Molly takes a deep breath, calming herself down. She leans over and kisses his collar bone, just peeping out from beneath his t-shirt, and she narrows her eyes, determined to detect any hint of movement in his expression.

He is as still as a statue, but then the facade cracks with a blink, and his eyes meet hers, a faint quirk of amusement on his lips.

"I have to do it right," he says. "If I want it to actually work."

"I know," she says, and she kisses his jaw, another reassurance that she very much appreciates his attempt at being a responsible grown up with some sort of control over his own life. "They got Al Capone on tax evasion in the end."

"Mmm," he says. "Although I'm not _quite_ in the same league as he was."

Molly frowns. "You committed murder in plain sight of a dozen witnesses, and it never made it onto your criminal record, because your brother runs the country." She folds her arms across his chest and rests her chin on top of them, watching his face, waiting for an answer.

"You have a point," he concedes, and he extracts his arm from between his pillows so he can reach forward and brush her fringe from her face.

"Still," Molly says. "It's funny, isn't it?"

"What?"

She can't believe she has to explain it to him, but maybe she's alone in thinking this was the last thing she expected to happen.

"You know," she says. "You, me, _her_ ," she glances downwards, indicating her belly. "Business rates, that sort of thing."

He's quiet, but it's not a bad quiet. It's more contemplative, and his hand curls around her wrists, thumb rubbing gently back and forth across the back of her hand.

She wonders what fifteen year old her would think, if she could float back to that first meeting, all those years ago, and whisper in her ear that one day, she would be starting a family with the lanky boy without the tie. She smiles at the thought, remembers the racing hormones, and the teacher - she forgets his name - who matched her up with him, all those years ago.

"Makes you wonder what would have happened if I'd gotten my shit together a bit sooner," he says, and he sounds slightly remorseful, as if he feels like it's somehow his fault that it's only happened after twenty years.

"No," Molly says, turning her hand over so she can lace her fingers with his. "This is perfect, this, right now."

The words still sound new when he says them, and she has to fight hard to keep herself from grinning like an idiot, every time they leave his mouth.

"I love you," he says.

"I know," she says.

"Good," he says, and he brings her hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. "That's good."

* * *

 **The End**


End file.
